m  i 


mm 

m 


m 
i 


DRIFT: 


A     SEA-SHORE     IDYL 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY  ; G,; £,<•) .&  <    E    A'R:  iS'  OLD, 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS. 
1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  th»  year  1866,  by 

•••      *•  *      •**•**     ^ 

TICKjvUOR     A  N  W  F«IJ[?£  QtS«, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Djstrjft  oTMassachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR .7 

DRIFT .        . '      .  25 

THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE     .        .  .        .        .36 

RECRIMINATION      .        .        .       - 41 

INTROSPECTION    .        .        . 49 

WOOL-GATHERING 57 

THE  Two  AUTUMNS 63 

ALONE  BY  THE  HEARTH 67 

THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORY         .     '  .        .        .                .  70 

AN  IDYL  OF  OCTOBER 75 

"  ALL  FOR  LOVE  "... 80 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ROSALIE       .        .        ...        .        .  83 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS 86 

THE  OLD  PLACE     ........  89 

THE  GIFT  OF  LOVE 90 

MY  LOVE 93 

MINNIE'S  ANSWER 95 

Au  COMBLE 97 


938589 


4  ,     Contents. 

SWEET  IMPATIENCE 99 

AN  AUTUMN  JOY  ........  103 

IN  VAIN    .                .        . 106 

GONE     .        .        .        . 108 

DE  PROFUNDIS .        .        .109 

A  FAREWELL no 

VALE!        .-.'•.. 112 

EXPRESSION    ........        .  115 

THE  TRYST 117 

AMONG  THE  HEATHER         .        »                .        .        .  119 

THE  LEES  OF  LIFE  . 120 

FARCEUR  DE  POETE  !    . 121 

BEER         .        .        .        . 123 

YOUTH  AND  AGE  ....        ....  126 

THE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE  POET 127 

GUI  BONO? 128 

THE  GOLDEN  FISH 130 

CA  M'EST  EGAL 131 

GOLD  AND  PURPLE 133 

PARTING        .                134 

THEN  AND  Now 135 

SUMMER  WINDS 137 

LAZINESS 141 

THE  SIMPLE  RHYME .     -.  142 

MEADOW  SWEET 144 


Contents.  5 

FAREWELL  TO  SUMMER 145 

SEPTEMBER 148 

THE  HEART'S  REST      .        .        .        .                .        .  151 

THE  SIREN  OF  THE  ROSE 153 

ON  THE  SANDS 155 

FOUL  WEATHER        .                 157 

APART 158 

AT  DUSK 1 60 

SERENADE 162 

VIA  CRUCIS 164 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 165 

NEW-YEAR'S  EVE 168 

JUBILATE 17° 

THE  MATRON  YEAR 171 

REQUIESCAM 174 

IN  THE  DARK .176 


GEORGE    ARNOLD. 


r  I  ^HE  author  of  the  poems  contained  in  this 
-*-  volume  was  very  dear  to  me  as  a  comrade, 
and  so  I  do  not  pretend  to  speak  impartially  of 
his  character  and  his  writings.  During  a  period 
of  six  years  it  was  my  fortune  to  be  associated 
with  him  under  a  variety  of  circumstances,  and 
to  participate  in  many  of  his  pleasures  and  in 
some  of  his  sorrows.  Not  many  weeks  have 
passed,  since  all  that  was  mortal  of  him  was  laid 
in  the  tomb.  It  may  chance,  therefore,  that  ten 
derness  for  his  memory  and  grief  for  his  loss 
will  somewhat  color  the  language  of  this  me 
moir.  Affection  is  not  critical.  But,  whatever 
be  the  faults  of  this  attempt  to  depict  the  de 
parted  poet,  I  confidently  believe  that  every  ap 
preciative  reader  of  these  poems  will  recognize 


George  Arnold. 


them    as  the  exponents   of  genius  and   of  a   re 
markable  and  winning  character. 

George  Arnold  was  born  in  Bedford  Street, 
New  York  city,  on  the  24th  of  June,  1834,  and 
died  at  Strawberry  Farms,  Monmouth  County, 
New  Jersey,  on  the  Qth  of  November,  1865. 
The  events  of  his  short  life  were  neither  numer 
ous  nor  striking.  His  parents  continued  to  re 
side  in  New  York  till  he  was  three  years  of 
age,  when  they  removed  to  Alton,  in  the  State 
of  Illinois.  There  he  passed  twelve  years  of  his 
boyhood,  —  happy,  buoyant  years,  diversified  by 
exercise  and  study,  and  blessed  by  free  commu 
nication  with  Nature,  amidst  some  of  her  most 
picturesque  and  inspiring  scenery.  There,  doubt 
less,  he  laid  the  foundations  of  that  profound 
love  and  genuine  knowledge  of  Nature  which  he 
manifested  in  after  years.  He  never  went  to 
school.  His  education  was  conducted  by  his  par 
ents,  from  whom  he  learned,  in  a  happy  home, 
those  lessons  of  truth  and  fact,  and  those  sim 
ple  principles  of  action,  which  are  the  sufficient 


George  Arnold.  9 

basis  of  an  honorable  life.  Those  teachings  he 
never  forgot  ;  and,  though  his  later  years  were 
not  unblemished  with  errors,  he  was,  from  first 
to  last,  in  all  things  and  to  all  persons,  straight 
forward,  sincere,  and  manly.  Nor  was  this  re 
sult  altogether  due  to  early  training.  Simplicity 
and  truthfulness  of  character  were  born  attri 
butes  of  the  man.  His  nature  was  frank,  gen 
tle,  and  sweet,  and  all  his  impulses  were  gen 
erous  and  good. 

In  the  summer  of  1849  his  parents  removed 
from  Illinois,  and  settled  at  Strawberry  Farms, 
in  the  State  of  New  Jersey.  A  Fourierite  Pha- 
lansterie  had  been  established  there  ;  but,  at  this 
time,  it  was  gradually  breaking  up.  Residing 
there  during  the  next  three  years,  seeing  many 
social  reformers,  —  some  of  them  peculiarly  ra 
tional,  and  some  of  them  peculiarly  eccentric, — 
and  hearing  continually  of  social  reform,  the  im 
pressible  mind  of  the  young  poet  took  a  philo 
sophical  bent,  and  began  very  early  to  speculate 
upon  the  difference  between  things  as  they  are 


io  George  Arnold. 

and  things  as  they  ought  to  be.  This  habit  of 
thought  continued  with  him  to  the  end  of  his 
life.  He  was  never  a  reformer,  indeed,  and  for 
professional  reformers  he  entertained  a  cordial 
contempt.  His  conviction  appeared  to  be,  —  and 
it  is,  perhaps,  as  sound  as  any  doctrine  of  con 
temporary  social  philosophy,  —  that  "  the  world 
is  out  of  joint,"  and  that  no  mere  human  power 
is  available  to  set  it  right.  With  his  philosophy, 
however,  —  or  his  lack  of  it,  —  the  reader  is  not 
concerned  ;  and  I  refer  to  his  youthful  acquaint 
ance  with  reformers  and  doctrines  of  reform,  only 
to  explain  that  bias  toward  speculation  which 
appears  in  certain  of  his  poems,  —  notably  in 
"  Wool-Gathering,"  —  and  that  independent  men 
tal  custom  of  viewing  all  subjects  through  the 
eyes  of  common  sense,  to  which  may  be  attrib 
uted  the  vigor  and  freshness  of  much  that  he 
has  written. 

In  the  autumn  of  1852,  having  developed  a 
strong  preference  and  natural  aptitude  for  the 
art  of  Painting,  he  was  placed  in  the  studio  of 


George  Arnold.  1 1 

a  portrait-painter  in  New  York  city.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  his  career  as  a  worker  in  the 
fine  arts.  Experience  proved,  however,  that  he 
had  mistaken  his  vocation.  He  speedily  became 
a  good  draughtsman,  and  manifested  skill  and 
taste  in  the  minor  department  of  landscape-paint 
ing.  This  cleverness  in  sketching  landscapes 
grew  with  his  years,  and  afforded  him  great  en 
joyment.  Several  of  his  friends  possess  little 
sketches  that  he  gave  them,  chiefly  in  water- 
colors,  which,  if  much  less  complete  as  works  of 
art,  are  often  as  characteristic  of  the  author  as 
even  his  poems  themselves.  Such  a  sketch  is 
before  me,  as  I  write  these  words.  It  represents 
a  square  in  an  old  German  city.  Around  the 
square  are  quaint  houses,  with  diamond-paned 
windows  and  staring  gargoyles.  In  the  back 
ground  a  vast  cathedral  lifts  its  spire  toward 
the  blue  sky  of  summer,  flecked  with  clouds  of 
fleece.  The  lame  beggar  halts  along  in  the 
shadow.  Hooded  monks  stand  apart,  conversing. 
The  whole  scene  is  gentle,  slumbrous,  poetic, 


12  George  Arnold. 

and  suggestive.  But  it  was  oftener  with  the 
sweet  or  stern  aspects  of  Nature  that  the  poet's 
fancy  held  genial  communion.  He  loved  to  think 
of  quiet  woodland  places  ;  of  moss-grown  rocks, 
and  the  bright  green  of  creeping  vines  ;  of  the 
musical  purl  and  tinkle  of  lonely  brooks  ;  of 
thick-clustering,  dewy  roses ;  of  the  burnished 
glories  of  autumnal  woods  ;  of  the  wind  among 
the  pine-trees,  on  sombre  autumn  nights  ;  of  lone 
ly  beaches,  whereon  forever  echoes  the  ancient, 
solemn  dirge  of  the  sorrowing,  desolate  ocean, 
mindful  not  alone  of  its  own  mysterious  grief, 
but  of  missing  ships,  and  vanished  forms,  and 
"wrecks  far  out  at  sea."  His  poems  very  beau 
tifully  manifest  these  moods  of  his  fancy  ;  and 
these  moods  also  tinged  his  little  sketches,  and 
gave  them  a  characteristic  quality.  But  he  did 
not  succeed  as  a  painter  of  faces  and  figures, 
and  so  he  very  soon  abandoned  the  effort  to  be 
come  an  artist  with  the  brush.  His  early  stud 
ies  of  Painting,  however,  were  not  wasted.  Lov 
ing  the  art,  and  knowing  its  technicalities,  he 


George  Arnold.  13 

subsequently  became  an  excellent  art-critic.  His 
criticisms  of  paintings,  scattered  far  and  wide  in 
the  daily  and  weekly  press  of  New  York  city, 
are  numerous,  and  are  animated  by  genuine  sym 
pathy  with  noble  and  beautiful  ideals,  cordial 
appreciation  as  well  of  minor  merits  as  of  lofty 
conceptions,  and  a  frank  and  hearty  contempt 
for  mere  prettiness  and  charlatanism.  He  was 
unusually  competent  for  the  proper  performance 
of  this  work,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible  in  ephem 
eral  journalism,  he  faithfully  served  the  art  in 
which  he  had  once  hoped  to  win  distinction. 

The  transition  from  the  brush  to  the  pen  is 
not  uncommon.  With  him  it  was  natural  and 
inevitable.  Though  his  temperament  was  dreamy, 
his  will  never  became  the  slave  of  dreams.  He 
laM  down  the  brush  with  a  sigh  ;  but  he  laid  it 
down  :  and,  thenceforward,  to  the  end  of  his  life, 
he  worked  with  the  pen,  incurring  the  perils, 
bearing  the  sorrows,  surmounting  the  obstacles, 
and  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  the  noble  and  fas 
cinating  profession  of  letters.  His  literary  career 


14  George  Arnold. 

extended  over  a  period  of  about  twelve  years. 
In  the  course  of  that  time  he  wrote,  with  equal 
fluency  and  versatility,  stories,  sketches,  essays, 
poems,  comic  and  satirical  verses,  criticisms  of 
books  and  of  pictures,  editorial  articles,  jokes 
and  pointed  paragraphs, — everything,  in  short, 
for  which  there  is  a  demand  in  the  literary  mag 
azines  of  the  country,  and  in  New  York  journal 
ism.  The  quantity  of  written  material  which  he 
thus  produced  is  surprisingly  large.  Much  of  it, 
of  course,  is  of  an  ephemeral  character.  As  is 
usual  with  men  of  letters,  who  live  by  their  pens, 
Arnold  was  obliged  to  combine  the  profession 
of  journalism  with  that  of  literature  ;  and  in 
journalism,  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  article 
thereof.  But,  while  he  wrote  much  for  the  mo 
ment,  he  wrote  much  also  that  will  endure.  He 
was  not  merely  a  journalist.  The  original  mind, 
the  large,  warm  heart,  and  the  sleepless  fire  of 
genius  often  gave  accidental  worth  to  even  his 
lightest  compositions.  In  this  way  "he  builded 
better  than  he  knew."  The  reader  of  his  "  Me- 


George  Arnold.  15 

Arone "  papers,  commenced  in  "  Vanity  Fair," 
November  24,  1860,  and  continued,  in  that  and 
other  journals,  with  but  slight  intermissions, 
until  October  14,  1865,  will  especially  appreci 
ate  the  truth  of  this  remark.  Those  papers,  in 
which  the  Chevalier  Me  Arone  records  his  own 
exploits  and  reflections,  aim  to  excite  mirth  by 
their  perfectly  preposterous  absurdity.  (I  ex 
cept,  of  course,  those  written  toward  the  close 
of  the  author's  life,  which  are  inexpressibly  pa 
thetic.)  Yet,  beneath  their  sunny  vein  of  non 
sense,  runs  an  often  perceptible  current  of  strong 
thought  and  delicate  sentiment,  revealing  the 
profound  convictions  and  ardent,  persuasive  sym 
pathy  of  a  great  nature.  Similar  indications  ap 
pear  in  his  stories.  The  poems,  of  the  best  of 
which  (selected  and  arranged  by  the  present 
writer)  this  volume  is  composed,  reveal  their  au 
thor  yet  more  distinctly.  A  subtle  knowledge 
of  the  human  heart,  a  quick  sympathy  with  ideals 
of  purity,  innocence,  and  beauty,  a  thorough  love 
for  Nature,  combined  with  real  knowledge  of  the 


1 6  George  Arnold. 

subject,  —  in  reference  to  which  most  poets  man 
ifest  laborious  ignorance,  —  a  fine  appreciation 
of  the  holiest  human  emotions,  a  profound  ac 
quaintance  with  grief,  an  exhaustless  impulse  of 
tender  humanity  underlying  the  workings  of  a 
critical  intellect,  a  sad,  playful  humor  closejy 
blended  with  pathos,  a  vein  of  religious  senti 
ment,  a  manly  spirit,  proud  and  aspiring,  yet 
capable  of  calm  endurance  and  gentle  resigna 
tion,  —  these  qualities  of  mind  and  of  character 
are  clearly  manifested  in  these  poems,  which 
are,  moreover,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  mould 
ed  and  finished  in  deference  to  the  dictates  of 
thoughtful  culture  and  severest  taste.  They  do 
not  attempt  high,  imaginative  flights.  Their  con 
ception  was  due  to  no  merely  artistic  impulse. 
They  were  born  in  the  writer's  heart,  and  ut 
tered  naturally,  in  strains  of  simple  and  delicious 
music. 

It  does  not  seem  necessary  here  to  enumerate 
the  various  magazines  and  newspapers  in  which 
Arnold's  pen  found  employmen^.  He  wrote  for 


George  Arnold.  17 

bread,  and  he  sold  his  writings  to  whomsoever 
would  buy  them.  It  was  noticeable,  too,  —  espe 
cially  so  in  his  later  years,  —  that  he  had  no  de 
sire  for  literary  reputation.  He  was  industrious, 
in  order  that  he  might  be  independent  of  the 
world.  He  lived  simply,  because  he  could  not 
afford  to  live  magnificently.  A  poet,  he  was  not 
lacking  in  luxurious  and  eccentric  tastes.  A 
young  bachelor,  he  was  not  lacking  in  the  care 
less  liberality  of  jovial  good-fellowship.  Yet  he 
accomplished  a  great  deal  of  work,  and  he  always 
did  it  promptly,  and  faithfully,  and  well.  In  this 
respect,  and,  indeed,  in  all  respects,  his  private 
life  was  governed  by  the  strictest  principles  of 
personal  integrity.  He  had,  despite  his  youth,  a 
marvellous  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  he  wisely 
chose  to  conquer  his  place  in  it,  by  ability,  indus 
try,  honor,  and  cheerfulness.  The  principal  mo 
tive  of  his  conduct  (and  this,  possibly,  explains 
his  indifference  toward  literary  reputation,  and 
his  habitual  neglect  of  the  expedients  by  which 
commonly  it  is  attained)  was  a  desire  to  be,  rath- 


1 8  George  Arnold. 

er  than  to  seem,  —  to  develop  his  own  character, 
to  act  ingenuously,  to  deserve  the  love  of  his 
friends,  to  surround  himself  with  an  atmosphere 
of  cheerfulness,  and  thus  to  make  the  best  of  the 
serio-comic  drama  of  human  life.  In  this  he  suc 
ceeded.  Those  who  knew  him  well,  loved  him 
dearly.  They  knew  that  he  was  genuine,  that  he 
scorned  every  description  of  imposture,  and  that 
his  friendship  —  never  idly  bestowed  —  was,  when 
once  given,  steadfast  and  true,  alike  in  storm  and 
sunshine. 

This  genuineness  of  character,  revealed  through 
the  medium  of  a  peculiarly  cheerful  temperament, 
—  all  the  more  winning  for  its  latent  sadness,  — 
was  the  source  of  his  peculiar  personal  influence, 
and  of  his  capacity  to  inspire  affection.  He  at 
tracted  the  good  side  of  every  nature.  Those 
who  came  in  contact  with  him  somehow  exhib 
ited  themselves  to  the  best  advantage.  He  had 
none  of  the  conceit  of  intellectual  superiority, 
neither  did  he  flourish  his  quill  in  the  face  of 
society.  His  manners  had  the  repose  that  dis- 


George  Arnold.  19 

tinguishes  the  gentleman,  and  something  of  the 
autumnal  ripeness  and  beauty  which  he  so  much 
loved  in  Nature,  and  of -which  he  has  written  so 
well.  Even  his  little  superficial  affectations  were 
not  unpleasant  He  was  fond  of  representing 
himself  as  an  utterly  selfish  and  heartless  man, 
and  of  attributing  selfish  motives  to  the  whole 
human  race.  He  liked,  also,  to  suggest  the  ludi 
crous  side  of  serious  subjects,  and  to  dampen  the 
fire  of  sentiment  with  the  cold  water  of  cynicism. 
But  he  wore  the  mask  of  Mephistopheles  with  an 
ill  grace,  and,  toward  the  last,  he  laid  it  altogether 
aside.  Gentle,  simple,  and  affectionate,  "  a  soul 
of  God's  best  earthly  mould,"  —  such  he  appeared 
to  me  in  those  last  days,  and  such  I  faithfully  be 
lieve  him  to  have  been. 

It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  the  closing 
days  of  his  life  were  passed  in  the  society  of  dear 
friends,  and  that  he  entered  into  his  rest  amidst 
scenes  that  were  hallowed  to  him  by  tender  asso 
ciations  of  a  happy  and  hopeful  youth.  His  cus 
tom,  for  years,  had  been  to  spend  occasional  weeks 


2O  George  Arnold. 

of  the  summer  and  autumn  at  Strawberry  Farms. 
Thither,  accordingly,  he  went,  in  August  last, 
having  been  ill  for  some  time  previously.  His 
face,  though  it  wore  then  a  weary  look,  gave  no 
sign  of  approaching  death.  Yet  his  thoughts 
had  dwelt  often  upon  that  solemn  theme,  and  I 
think  he  knew  that  the  end  was  near.  In  spite, 
however,  of  sickness,  pain,  and  despondency,  his 
habitual  mood  of  mind  remained  calm,  and  even 
cheerful.  He  continued  to  write  for  the  press 
up  to  within  four  weeks  of  his  death.  The  last 
prose  article  that  he  wrote  was  the  last  of  the 
McArone  papers,  humorously  yet  very  sadly  ex 
pressive  of  a  wish  to  be  an  Old  Lady.  The  last 
poem  that  he  prepared  for  publication  was  "  The 
Matron  Year."  I  think,  however,  that  he  subse 
quently  wrote  several  little  songs,  which,  being 
intended  merely  for  his  own  amusement,  are,  to 
gether  with  many  similar  trifles,  of  earlier  date, 
omitted  from  this  collection.  He  had  a  happy  ap 
titude  for  composing  melodies  to  match  his  words, 
and,  in  private,  he  used  often  to  sing  his  own 


George  Arnold.  21 

songs.  They  were  simple  and  sweet,  and  he  sang 
them  sweetly.  Many  an  afternoon,  in  that  gold 
en  autumn  which  was  his  last  on  earth,  he  sat 
alone  in  the  parlor  of  the  old  house  at  Straw 
berry  Farms,  playing  the  piano  and  singing  softly 
to  himself.  I  picture  him  thus,  as  the  end  drew 
near,  —  his  handsome  face  calm  with  the  repose  of 
resignation,  his  gentle,  blue  eyes  full  of  a  kind, 
sad  light,  his  rich  voice,  soft  and  tremulous  and 
low,  breathing  out  his  own  glad  hymn  of  faith  in 
the  protecting  love  of  the  Great  Master  : 

"  To-day  a  song  is  on  my  lips  : 

Earth  seems  a  paradise  to  me  : 
For  God  is  good,  and  lo  !  my  ships 
Are  coming  home  from  sea." 

They  have  come  home  now,  —  all  the  high  hopes, 
all  the  ventures  of  aspiration,  that  his  soul  sent 
forth,  in  the  holy  season  of  innocent  youth.  His 
dreams  of  happiness  are  all  realized  :  his  life  that 
was  broken  on  earth  is  fulfilled  in  heaven. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 
NEW  YORK,  January  21,  1866. 


POEMS. 


DRIFT. 

A    SEA-SHORE    IDYL. 

I. 

T   WEARIED  once  of  inland  fields  and  hills, 
•*•    Of  low-lying  meadows  and  of  sluggish  streams, 
Creeping  beneath  the  trees  that  summer-heats 
Had  parched  to  dusty  dryness  ;  and  a  dream 
Of  fresh,  cool  breezes  and  of  salty  waves, 
Of  azure  skies  o'erarching  azure  seas, 
Of  tangled  seaweed  from  unfathomed  deeps, 
Came  over  me  ;  and  so  I  left  the  hills, 
To  sojourn,  through  the  riper  summer-months, 
Upon  the  shore. 

There,  in  a  lonely  house, 
So  near  the  breakers  that  their  misty  foam 
Whitely  enwrapped  it  when  the  storm  raged  high, 


26  Drift. 

I  let  my  summer-days  pass  idly  by. 
Yet  not  all  idly  :  when  the  morn  was  fair, 
And  soft  winds  bore  strange  odors  from  the  sea 
Through  open  casements,  oftentimes  I  wrote  — 
Weaving  brief  rhymes,  disjointed,  and,  perhaps, 
Too  simple  for  the  lovers  of  great  poems. 

A  ship  went  sailing  from  the  shore, 
And  vanished  in  the  gleaming  west, 

Where  purple  clouds  a  lining  bore 
Of  gold  and  amethyst. 

Poised  in  the  air,  a  sea-gull  flashed 
His  white  wings  in  the  sun's  last  ray  ; 

A  moment  hung,  then  downward  dashed, 
To  revel  in  the  spray. 

The  fishers  drew  their  long  nets  in 
With  careful  eye  and  steady  hand, 

Till  olive  back  and  silvery  fin 
Strewed  all  the  tawny  sand. 


Drift.  27 

Again  I  trod  the  shore  ;  again 
The  sea-gull  circled  high  in  air  ; 

Again  the  sturdy  fishermen 
Drew  in  their  nets  with  care. 

The  sunset's  gold  and  amethyst 
Shone  fairly,  as  I  paced  the  shore, 

But  back  from  out  the  gleaming  west 
The  ship  came  —  nevermore  ! 

n. 

After  the  first  days,  goodly  company 
Came  to  the  lonely  house  beside  the  sea : 
Bright  eyes  and  tresses,  voices  of  young  girls, 
Made  joy  within  those  somewhat  mouldy  halls  ; 
And  a  piano,  that  had  long  stood  mute 
In  the  old  parlor,  on  the  landward  side, 
Grew  musical  and  merry  to  the  touch 
Of  jewelled  fingers. 

What  rare  days  were  those, 
When  my  chief  duty  was  to  write  a  song, 
As  often  as  the  brown-eyed  Marian 


28  Drift. 

Grew  weary  of  my  last !     And  thus  our  time 
Passed,  smoothly  as  a  river-current  flows. 
Music  and  reading,  strolling  on  the  beach, 
Gathering  colored  pebble-stones  and  shells, 
And  sea-weed  from  the  rocks  beyond  the  bar, 
Were  all  our  pastime. 

A  flood  of  sunlight  through  a  rift 

Between  two  mounds  of  yellow  sand  ; 

Three  sea-gulls  on  a  bit  of  drift 

Slow  surging  inward  toward  the  land  : 

An  old  dumb-beacon,  all  awry, 

With  drabbled  sea-weed  round  its  feet ; 

A  star-like  sail  against  the  sky, 

Where  sapphire  heaven  and  ocean  meet 

This,  with  the  waters  swirling  o'er 
A  shifting  stretch  of  sand  and  shell, 

Will  make,  for  him  who  loves  the  shore, 
A  picture  that  may  please  him  well. 


Drift.  29 

in. 

Ere  the  sun  went  down 
We  mostly  loved  to  linger  by  the  sea, 
Where,  seated  on  some  wave-worn  slab  of  stone, 
We  watched  the  furrowed  waves  that  rose  and  fell, 
Chasing  each  other  down  the  beaten  strand  ; 
But  when  the  shadows  lengthened  toward  the  east, 
And  the  red  glory  of  the  sunset  shone 
Upon  the  light-house,  and  the  fading  sails, 
The  yellow  sand-hills  with  their  sickly  grass 
And  inland-leaning  cedars,  we  returned 
To  the  old  parlor  ;  and,  as  dusk  came  on, 
Sang  to  each  other  till  the  moon  rode  high. 

The  light-house  keeper's  daughter,  — 
Her  hair  is  golden  as  the  sand  ; 

Her  eyes  are  blue  as  summer-seas 
That  melt  into  the  land. 

Her  brow  and  neck  are  whiter 
Than  sea-foam  flying  on  the  wind, 

Her  mouth  is  rosy  as  the  shells 
That  strew  the  coast  of  Ind. 


30  Drift. 

The  winds  caress  her  ringlets 

That  down  her  neck  in  clusters  stray, 

And  frothy  waves  flow  tenderly 
About  her  feet,  in  play. 

I  love  this  simple  maiden, 

She  grows  upon  me  more  and  more, 
And  —  ask  the  moon  who  't  was  that  kissed, 

Last  night,  upon  the  shore  ! 

IV. 

At  times,  when  moonlight  danced  upon  the  sea, 
And  all  the  air  was  musical  with  sounds 
Of  waters  slowly  breaking  on  the  beach, 
We  sought  the  bar,  and  climbed  its  farthest  rocks, 
Against  whose  weedy  feet  the  waves  uprose 
In  phosphorescent  foam  ;  and,  seated  there, 
The  maidens  picturesquely  grouped  around, 
We  talked  philosophy,  or  told  quaint  tales 
Of  most  romantic  sort,  —  of  ghosts  and  ghouls, 
Of  strange  things  seen  by  those  whom  we  had 
known  ; 


Drift.  3 1 

Of  strange  things  we,  perchance,  ourselves  had 
seen  ; 

Of  marvels  told  by  ancient  mariners, 

The  Maelstrom,  and  the  heaven-dropped  water 
spouts,  — 

Or  sadder  tales,  of  wrecks  far  out  at  sea, 

Of  missing  vessels,  and  of  sailors  drowned. 

The  river  down  to  the  ocean  flows 
By  reedy  flats  and  marshes  bare  ; 

And  the  leafless  poplars  stand  in  rows 
Like  ghostly  sentinels  watching  there. 

An  osprey  sails,  with  wings  spread  wide, 
Down-slanting  from  his  even  flight, 

To  a  sedgy  spot,  where  the  falling  tide 
Has  left  some  kind  of  drift  in  sight. 

A  blackened  mass,  by  the  tide  left  bare, 
In  the  tangled  weeds  and  the  slimy  mud. 

The  osprey  shrieks  as  he  settles  there, 
And  a  deathly  horror  chills  my  blood  ! 


32  Drift. 

v. 

So  passed  the  summer,  and  we  had  our  fill 

Of  lotos-eating  by  the  ocean  side  ; 

We  came  to  know  and  love  each  pleasant  spot 

About  the  place  ;  the  sheltered  nooks  where  grew 

Dwarfed  flowers,  whose  downy  seeds  had  come, 

mayhap, 

Upon  the  wings  of  Autumn's  winds  upborne, 
A  thousand  miles,  to  drop,  and  germinate, 
In  the  dry  sand  ;  to  grow,  and  blow,  and  bloom, 
And  then  to  wither  —  't  were  a  happy  fate  — 
In  brown-eyed  Marian's  bosom.     And  we  knew 
Each  craggy  rock  that  overhung  the  sea, 
Whence  we  could  gaze  far  out  across  the  waste 
Of  heaving  waters,  dotted  here  and  there 
With  sails  that  shone  and  glimmered  in  the  sun, 
Like  planets  in  a  mellow  evening  sky. 
Sometimes  we  went  adventurously  forth 
When  northeast  tempests  raged  along  the  coast, 
Flinging  the  white  foam  upward  in  great  sheets, 
Like  hungry  monsters  rushing  from  the  deep 
To  swallow  up  the  land. 


Drift.  33 

Then,  bits  of  wrecks, 
Odd  timbers  spiked  with  rusty  iron  bolts, 
Fragments  of  masts,  and  empty  water-casks,  — 
Sad  debris  of  the  storm,  —  came  up  next  day, 
Drifting  ashore  on  smooth,  unbroken  swells. 

O  cool,  green  waves  that  ebb  and  flow, 
Reflecting  calm,  blue  skies  above, 

How  gently  now  ye  come  and  go, 
Since  ye  have  drowned  my  love  ! 

Ye  lap  the  shore  of  beaten  sand, 
With  cool,  salt  ripples  circling  by  ; 

But  from  your  depths  a  ghostly  hand 
Points  upward  to  the  sky. 

O  waves  !  strew  corals,  white  and  red, 

With  shells  and  strange  weeds  from  the  deep, 

To  make  a  rare  and  regal  bed 
Whereon  my  love  may  sleep  : 

May  sleep,  and,  sleeping,  dream  of  me, 
In  dreams  that  lovers  find  so  sweet ; 
3 


34  Drift. 

And  I  will  couch  me  by  the  sea, 
That  we  in  dreams  may  meet. 

VI. 

But,  while  the  pleasant  season  lasted  still, 
My  friends  deserted  me  for  other  scenes, 
Leaving  me  lonely  in  the  lonely  house, 
With  memory's  ghosts  to  bear  me  company. 
Alone  I  sang  the  plaintive  little  songs, 
That  brown-eyed  Marian  had  sung  with  me  : 
Alone  I  trod  the  path  along  the  shore, 
Where  we  so  often  had  together  strolled  : 
Alone  I  watched  the  moonrise,  from  the  rocks 
Where  Marian  had  erstwhile  walked  with  me, 
To  let  the  salt  breeze,  freshening  with  the  night, 
Play  in  her  ringlets,  and  bring  up  the  bloom 
Of  rose  and  lily  to  her  cheek. 

Alas! 

If  I  should  tell  the  whole  of  what  I  felt, 
In  waking  these  dear  memories  of  the  past, 
This  simple  idyl  would  be  lengthened  out 
Into  a  history  of  two  hearts,  that  met  — 
That  met  —  and  parted  ! 


Drift.  35 

Ah  !  the  theme  is  old, 

And  worn  quite  threadbare,  —  not  alone  in  books, 
But  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  maids  as  well. 
But  then,  all  stories  that  are  true  are  old. 

The  breakers  come  and  the  breakers  go, 

Along  the  silvery  sand, 
With  a  changing  line  of  feathery  snow, 

Between  the  water  .and  land. 

Sea-weeds  gleam  in  the  sunset  light, 

On  the  ledges  of  wave-worn  stone  ; 
Orange  and  crimson,  purple  and  white, 

In  regular  windrows  strewn. 

The  waves  grow  calm  in  the  dusk  of  eve, 
When  the  wind  goes  down  with  the  sun  ; 

So  fade  the  smiles  of  those  who  deceive, 
When  the  coveted  heart  is  won. 

This  seaweed  wreath  that  hangs  on  the  wall, 

She  twined  one  day  by  the  sea  : 
Of  the  weeds,  and  the  waves,  and  her  love,  it  is  all 

That  the  Past  has  left  to  me ! 


THE    JOLLY    OLD    PEDAGOGUE. 


'^  I  ^  WAS  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago, 

-^     Tall  and  slender,  and  sallow  and  dry  ; 
His  form  was  bent,  and  his  gait  was  slow, 
His  long,  thin  hair  was  as  white  as  snow, 

But  a  wonderful  twinkle  shone  in  his  eye  ; 
And  he  sang  every  night  as  he  went  to  bed, 

"  Let  us  be  happy  down  here  below  ; 
The  living  should  live,  though  the  dead  be  dead, 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

II. 

He  taught  his  scholars  the  rule  of  three, 

Writing,  and  reading,  and  history,  too  ; 
He  took  the  little  ones  up  on  his  knee, 
For  a  kind  old  heart  in  his  breast  had  he, 
And  the  wants  of  the  littlest  child  he  knew  : 


The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue.  37 

"  Learn  while  you  're  young,"  he  often  said, 
"  There  is  much  to  enjoy,  down  here  below  ; 

Life  for  the  living,  and  rest  for  the  dead  !  " 
Sa?d  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

in. 
With  the  stupidest  boys  he  was  kind  and  cool, 

Speaking  only  in  gentlest  tones  ; 
The  rod  was  hardly  known  in  his  school .  .  . 
Whipping,  to  him,  was  a  barbarous  rule, 

And  too  hard  work  for  his  poor  old  bones  ; 
Beside,  it  was  painful,  he  sometimes  said : 

"  We  should  make  life  pleasant,  down  here  below, 
The  living  need  charity  more  than  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

IV. 

He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn  lane, 

With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door  ; 
His  rooms  were  quiet,  and  neat,  and  plain, 
But  a  spirit  of  comfort  there  held  reign, 
And  made  him  forget  he  was  old  and  poor  ; 


38  The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue, 

"  I  need  so  little,"  he  often  said  ; 

"  And  my  friends  and  relatives  here  below 
Won't  litigate  over  me  when  I  am  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

v. 
But  the  pleasantest  times  that  he  had,  of  all, 

Were  the  sociable  hours  he  used  to  pass, 
With  his  chair  tipped  back  to  a  neighbor's  wall, 
Making  an  unceremonious  call, 

Over  a  pipe  and  a  friendly  glass  : 
This  was  the  finest  pleasure,  he  said, 

Of  the  many  he  tasted,  here  below  ; 
"  Who  has  no  cronies,  had  better  be  dead  !  " 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

VI. 

Then  the  jolly  old  pedagogue's  wrinkled  face 

Melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  smiles  ; 
He  stirred  his  glass  with  an  old-school  grace, 
Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace, 

Till  the  house  grew  merry,  from  cellar  to  tiles 


The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue.  39 

"  I  'm  a  pretty  old  man,"  he  gently  said, 
"  I  have  lingered  a  long  while,  here  below  ; 

But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  is  fled  !  " 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

VII. 

He  smoked  his  pipe  in  the  balmy  air, 

Every  night  when  the  sun  went  down, 
While  the  soft  wind  played  in  his  silvery  hair, 
Leaving  its  tenderest  kisses  there, 

On  the  jolly  old  pedagogue's  jolly  old  crown  : 
And,  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled,  and  said, 

'T  was  a  glorious  world,  down  here  below  ; 
"  Why  wait  for  happiness  till  we  are  dead  ? " 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

VIII. 

He  sat  at  his  door,  one  midsummer  night, 

After  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  west, 
And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face  look  warm  and  bright, 
While  the  odorous  night-wind  whispered, "  Rest !" 


4O  The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue. 

Gently,  gently,  he  bowed  his  head  .  .  . 

There  were  angels  waiting  for  him,  I  know  ; 
He  was  sure  of  happiness,  living  or  dead, 

This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago  ! 


RECRIMINATION. 

i. 

r  I  ^HE  prime  of  summer  is  coming,  and  with  it 

-*•       there  comes,  to-day, 
A   thought  of  another   summer,   whose    garlands 

have  faded  away. 
The  tall  laburnums  are  covered  with  tresses  of 

yellow  flowers, 
As  they  were  when  under  their  shadow  you  used 

to  loiter  for  hours  ; 
And   the   blackberry's    starry    blossom    and    the 

buttercup's  chalice  of  gold 
Bloom   bright   in    the   ancient   forest   where  you 

loved  to  wander  of  old,  — 

Where  you  loved  to  wander  at  even,  but  wan 
dered  never  alone  ; 
For  a  manly  form  was  beside  you,  and  a  voice  of 

manly  tone 


42  Recrimination. 

Told  ever  the  olden  story ;  the  tale  that  you  know 

so  well, 
You  seem  to  think  it   the  only  one   it   is  worth 

man's  while  to  tell. 
Come,  sit  you  down  here  and  listen  ;  I  have  many 

things  to  say, 
And  though  I  am  loath  to  blame  you,  yet  pity  I 

surely  may. 

n. 

Ay,  ay,  you  wince  !  I  fancy  you  had  rather  have 
blame  instead. 

O  girl  !  will  you  never  learn  wisdom  ?  I  had 
hoped  your  pride  was  dead  ; 

But  no,  —  it  will  last  and  flourish  so  long  as  vani 
ties  live,  — 

So  long  as  you  hunger  for  worship,  so  long  as 
your  subjects  give. 

It  was  strange  that  he  thought  you  loved  him  ;  it 
was  strange  that  he  never  knew 

Your  heart,  except  by  the  shadow  that  others 
mistook  for  you  : 


Recrimination.  43 

But  you  went  well  masked,  and  no  one,  whether 

you  laughed  or  wept, 
Knew  aught  of  the  secret  chamber  where  your 

broken  relics  were  kept  ; 
You  hid   them   so  very  securely   the  wisest  had 

hardly  guessed, 
From  your  light-hearted  tone  and  manner,  your 

outer  seeming  of  rest, 
That  your  heart  was  a  drear  Golgotha,  where  all 

the  ground  was  white 
With  the  wrecks  of  joys  that  had  perished,  —  the 

skeletons  of 'delight! 

in. 
He  loved  you  ;  his  soul  was  in  earnest  ;  at  your 

dainty  feet  he  poured 
The  purest  and  best  libation  that  human  hearts 

can  afford  : 
He  dreamed  of  you  morn  and  even  ;  he  cherished 

the  flowers  you  gave  ; 
And  I  tell  you,   though  they   are  withered  now, 

they  will  go  with  him  to  the  grave  ! 


44  Recrimination. 

But  you  —  how  was  it  ?  —  you  met  him  with 
marvellous  glances  and  smiles  ; 

You  wove  your  glittering  meshes  ;  you  compassed 
him  with  your  wiles  ; 

You  sang  the  songs  he  had  written  ;  you  talked 
in  your  sweetest  voice, 

Till  he  thought  his  bondage  was  freedom,  and 
wore  your  fetters  by  choice. 

Then  a  great  joy  flooded  his  spirit,  and  the  yellow 
laburnum,  flowers 

Heard  wondrous  vows  and  pledges,  in  the  dusk  of 
the  evening  hours  ; 

While  there,  in  your  heart,  close  hidden  with  jeal 
ously  watchful  care, 

Lay  that  strange  Golgotha  of  passion,  that  arid 
waste  of  despair ! 

IV. 

It  is  well  that  I  know  your  story  :  I  know  that 

your  first  love  came, 
As  of  old  came  Jove  to  Semele,  a  splendid  and 

fatal  flame  : 


Recrimination.  45 

And  it  left  your  heart  in  ashes,  —  dead  ashes,  that 
cooled  and  lay 

A  wearisome  weight  in  your  bosom,  a  burden  to 
bear  for  aye. 

Since  then  you  have  shown  no  mercy  to  any  that 
circle  around 

The  dangerous  blaze  of  your  beauty,  for  you  no 
mercy  had  found. 

'Tis  for  this  I  offer  you  pity,  and  blame  you  not, 
as  I  should 

Had  you  still  a  heart  that  was  human,  with  a 
human  knowledge  of  good  ; 

But  the  glass  of  your  life  is  darkened,  and  darkly 
through  it  you  see 

Distorted  and  ghastly  fragments  of  duty  and  des 
tiny. 

Yet  you  still  can  flirt  and  trifle,  still  live  in  folly 
and  mirth,  — 

Ah  !  they  say  that  revenge  is  sweeter  than  any 
thing  else  on  earth. 


46  Recrimination. 

v. 
But  are   there  no  better  moments  —  better  ?  or 

are  they  worse  ?  — 
When    flattery   loses   its    sweetness,    and    beauty 

becomes  a  curse  ? 
When  you  come  from  the  world  of  pleasure,  the 

whirl,  and  glitter,  and  glare, 
The  tattle  instead  of  wisdom,  the  perfume  instead 

of  air  ; 
When  the  hot-house  garlands  are  withered,  and 

the  gray  dawn  breaks  in  the  east, 
And    the   wine   grows    stale  in  the  goblets  that 

shone  so  fair  at  the  feast ; 
When  rouge  hides  paleness  no  longer,  and  folly 

gives  way  to  thought,  — 
Do  love,  and  life,  and  emotion  still  count  in  your 

creed  for  naught  ? 
Do  you  never  gaze  in  your  mirror,  when  your 

beauty  at  daybreak  goes, 
And,  pressing  your  throbbing  temples,  pray  God 

to  give  you  repose  ? 


Recrim  ination .  4  7 

Repose  !  it  is  tardy  in  coming  :  when  the  bitter 

chalice  is  filled, 
We  must  wait  till  the   feverish  pulses   and   the 

passionate  heart  are  stilled. 

VI. 

There  is  one,  that  we  know,  thus  waiting,  —  wait 
ing  and  thinking  to-day, 
Perchance,  of  the  happy  summer  whose  blossoms 

have  faded  away  : 
He  walks  beneath  the  laburnums,  but  not  with 

the  hopeful  pride 
That  made  his  world  such  an  Eden  when  you 

walked  there  by  his  side. 
O  love  !  't  is  a  wonderful  passion  ;  it  makes  or  it 

mars  us  all ; 
By  love  men  may  walk  with  the  angels,  by  love 

the  angels  may  fall ! 
And  you  —  it  has  changed  your  nature,  it  has 

warped  you,  heart  and  soul, 
Till  you  flee,  with  fierce  desperation,   the  genii 

you  cannot  control. 


48  Recrimination. 

What,  tears  ?  they  are  not  becoming  ;  let  others 

such  weakness  show,  — 
The  hall  is  garnished  for  dancing,  the  wine  and 

the  gaslights  glow  : 
Go,  stifle  your  sobs  with  laughter,  let  your  eyes, 

like  your  heart,  be  dry, 
And  pray,  when  the  ball  is  over,  to  be  forgiven  — 

and  die  ! 


INTROSPECTION. 

i. 

HAVE  you  sent  her  back  her  letters  ?  have 
you  given  her  back  her  ring  ? 
Have  you  tried  to  forget  the  haunting  songs  that 

you  loved  to  hear  her  sing  ? 
Have   you   cursed   the   day   you   met   her  first  ? 

thanked  God  that  you  were  free, 
And  said  in  your  inmost  heart,  as  you  thought, 

"  She  never  was  dear  to  me  "  ? 
You  have  cast  her  off ;  your  pride  is  touched ; 

you  fancy  that  all  is  done  ; 
That   for  you   the   world    is   bright    again,    and 

bravely  shines  the  sun  : 
You   have  washed  your  hands  of  passion  ;   you 

have  whistled  her  down  the  wind,  — 
O  Tom,  old  friend,  this  goes  before,  the  sharpest 

comes  behind  ! 
4 


5O  Introspection. 

Yes,  the  sharpest  is  yet  to  come,  for  Love  is  a 

plant  that  never  dies  ; 
Its  roots  are  deep  as  the  earth  itself,  its  branches 

wide  as  the  skies  ; 
And  wherever  once  it  has  taken  hold,  it  flourishes 

evermore, 
Bearing   a   fruit   that   is   fair  outside,    but   bitter 

ashes  at  core. 

ii. 

You  will  learn  this,  Tom,  hereafter,  when  anger 
has  cooled,  and  you 

Have  time  for  introspection  ;  you  will  find  my 
words  are  true  ; 

You  will  sit  and  gaze  in  your  fire  alone,  and  fancy 
that  you  can  see 

Her  face,  with  its  classic  oval,  her  ringlets  flutter 
ing  free, 

Her  soft  blue  eyes,  wide  opened,  her  sweet  red 
lips  apart, 

As  she  used  to  look,  in  the  golden  days  when  you 
fancied  she  had  a  heart  : 


Introspection.  5 1 

Whatever  you  do,  wherever  you  turn,  you  will  see 

that  glorious  face 
Coming  with  shadowy  beauty,  to  haunt  all  time 

and  space : 
Those  songs  you  wrote  for  her  singing  will  sing 

themselves  into  your  brain 
Till  your  life  seems  set  to  their  rhythm,  and  your 

thoughts  to  their  refrain  — 
Their  old,    old   burden   of  love    and   grief  —  the 

passion  you  have  forsworn  : 
I  tell  you,  Tom,  it  is  not  thrown  off  so  well  as 

you  think,  this  morn  ! 

in. 

But  the  worst,  perhaps  the  worst  of  all,  will  be 
when  the  day  has  flown, 

When  darkness  favors  reflection,  and  your  com 
rades  leave  you  alone  : 

You  will  try  to  sleep,  but  the  memories  of  unfor- 
gotten  years 

Will  come  with  a  storm  of  wild  regret  —  mayhap 
with  a  storm  of  tears  ; 


5  2  Introspection. 

Each  look,  each  word,    each   playful   tone,  each 

timid  little  caress, 
The  golden  gleam  of  her  ringlets,  the  rustling  of 

her  dress, 
The  delicate  touch  of  her  ungloved  hand,  that 

woke  such  an  exquisite  thrill, 
The  flowers  she  gave  you,  the  night  of  the  ball,  — 

I  think  you  treasure  them  still,  — 
All  these  will  come,  till  you  slumber,  worn  out  by 

sheer  despair, 
And  then  you  will  hear  vague  -echoes  of  song  on 

the  darkened  air,  — 
Vague  echoes,  rising  and  falling,  of  the  voice  you 

know  so  well, 
Like   the  songs  that  were  sung  by  the  Lurlei- 

maids,  sweet  with  a  deadly  spell ! 

IV. 

In  dreams,  her  heart  will  ever  again  be  yours,  and 

you  will  see 
Fair  glimpses  of  what  might  have  been,  —  what 

now  can  never  be  ; 


Introspection.  5  3 

And  as  she  comes  to  meet  you,  with  a  sudden 

wild  unrest 
You  stretch  your  arms  forth  lovingly,  to  fold  her 

to  your  breast  : 
But  the  Lurlei-song  will  faint  and  die,  and  with 

its  fading  tone 
You  wake  to  find  you  clasp  the  thin  and  empty 

air  alone, 
While  the  fire-bell's  clanging  dissonance,  on  the 

gusty  night-wind  borne 

Will  seem  an  iron-tongued  demon's  voice,  laugh 
ing  your  grief  to  scorn. 
O  Tom,  you  say  it  is  over,  —  you  talk  of  letters 

and  rings,  — 
Do  you  think  that  Love's  mighty  spirit,  then,  is 

held  .by  such  trifling  things  ? 
No  !  if  you  once  have  truly  loved,  you  will  still 

love  on,  I  know, 
Till  the  churchyard  .myrtles  blossom  above,  and 

you  lie  mute  below  ! 


54  Introspection. 

v. 

How  is  it,  I  wonder,  hereafter  ?     Faith  teaches  us 

little,  here, 
Of  the  ones  we  have  loved  and  lost  on  earth,  —  do 

you  think  they  will  still  be  dear  ? 
Shall  we  live  the  lives  we  might  have  led  ?  —  will 

those  who  are  severed  now 

Remember  the  pledge  of  a  lower  sphere,  and  re 
new  the  broken  vow  ? 
It  almost  drives  me  wild  to  think  of  the  gifts  we 

throw  away 
Unthinking  whether  or  no  we  lose  Life's  honey 

and  wine  for  aye  ! 
But  then,  again,  't  is  a  mighty  joy  —  greater  than 

I  can  tell  — 
To  trust  that  the  parted  may  some  time  meet,  — 

that  all  may  again  be  well : 
However  it  be,  I  hold  that  all  the  evil  we  know 

on  earth 
Finds  in  this  violence  done  to  Love  its  true  and 

legitimate  birth, 


Introspection.  5  5 

And  the  agonies  we  suffer,  when  the  heart  is  left 

alone, 
For  every  sin  of  Humanity  should  fully  and  well 

atone  ! 

VI. 

I  see  that  you  marvel  greatly,  Tom,  to  hear  such 

words  from  me, 
But,  if  you  knew  my  inmost  heart,  't  would  be  no 

mystery. 

Experience  is  bitter,  but  its  teachings  we  retain  ; 
It  has  taught  me  this,  —  who  once  has  loved,  loves 

never  on  earth  again  ! 
And  I,  too,  have  my  closet,  with  a  ghastly  form 

inside,  — 
The  skeleton  of  a  perished  love,  killed  by  a  cruel 

pride  : 
I  sit  by  the  fire  at  evening,  as  you  will  some  time 

sit, 
And  watch,  in  the  roseate  half-light,  the  ghosts  of 

happiness  flit : 


56  Introspection. 

I,  too,  awaken  at  midnight,  and  stretch  my  arms 

to  enfold 
A   vague   and   shadowy    image,    with    tresses   of 

brown  and  gold  : 
Experience  is  bitter  indeed,  —  I  have  learned  at  a 

heavy  cost 
The   secret  of  Love's  persistency  :    I,   too,  have 

loved  and  lost ! 


WOOL-GATHERING. 


A     PLEASANT  golden  light  fills  all  the  cham- 
-*~*-     her  where  I  sit, 
The  amber  curtains  close  are  drawn,  and  shadows 

o'er  them  flit,  — 
The  swaying,  shifting  shadows  of  the  honeysuckle 

vine, 
Whose  bare  and  leafless  branches  still  about  the 

porch  entwine  : 

In  summer,  fresh  and  fair  they  grow,  with  blos 
soms  for  the  bees, 
But  now  in  wintry  nakedness  they  swing  upon  the 

breeze  ; 
Yet  here,  inside,  't  is  warm  and  bright,  and  I  am 

quite  inclined 
To  let  this  golden  demi-jour  make  summer  in  my 

mind : 


5  8  Wool-  Gathering. 

I  sit  with  Jack  —  my  terrier-dog — upon  my  lap 

curled  up, 
And,    smoking    thoughtfully,   I    seem    to    sip   the 

classic  cup 
The  Ancients  called  Nepenthe,  —  't  is  a  draught 

that  brings  repose 
When  one  has  lived  or  loved  too  much,  —  a  balm 

for  mental  woes. 
Yet,  in  this  same  Nepenthe  cup,  I  know  that  some 

will  see 
Another  name  for  laziness,  —  a  common  fault  with 

me! 

ii. 
Well,   why   not   preach   up   laziness  ?     I   think  it 

would  be  well 
If  some  who  cry  it  down  a  sin  could  only  feel  its 

spell ! 
The  hard,  ascetic  natures  —  those  who  look  for 

naught  but  Use 
In  everything  one   says  or  does  —  whose   spirits 

are  obtuse 


Wool-Gathering.  59 

To  all  the  glorious  gains  of  Art,  to  all  the  joys  of 

sense, 
And  who  cut  their  hard  paths  straightly  by  Poor 

Richard's  eloquence  ! 

Cid  bono?     Is  there  not  a  Power  above  the  hu 
man  mind 
That  works  out  all  our  problems,  be  they  e'er  so 

darkly  blind  ? 
And,  after  all,  does  Man,  the  unit,  when  his  life  is 

done 
Ever  look  back  upon   its  field  to  see  the  battle 

won  ? 
No  ;  I  think  not :  we  lay  our  plans,  but  when  our 

life-star  pales 
We    learn    that     human     prescience     inevitably 

fails. 
Napoleon    on    his   island,    and    Columbus   in  his 

chains, — 
Are  these  the  proud  successes,  then,  for  which  we 

take  such  pains  ? 


60  Wool-Gathering. 


in. 
Ah,  many  a  one  has  started  forth  with  hope  and 

purpose  high  ; 
Has  fought  throughout  a  weary  life,  and  passed 

all  pleasure  by  ; 
Has  burst  all  flowery  chains  by  which  men  aye 

have  been  enthralled ; 
Has  been  stone-deaf  to  voices  sweet,  that  softly, 

sadly  called  ; 
Has  scorned  the  flashing  goblet  with  the  bubbles 

on  its  brim  ; 
Has  turned  his  back  on  jewelled  hands  that  madly 

beckoned  him  ; 
Has,  in  a  word,  condemned  himself  to  follow  out 

his  plan 

By  stern  and  lonely  labor,  —  and  has  died,  a  con 
quered  man  ! 
Look  back,  ye  men   of  lofty  aims,   who  in  your 

youth  aspired 
To  win  some  prize,  —  with  love  of  gold  or  glory 

ye  were  fired  ; 


Wool-  Gathering.  6 1 

But  now  ?  let  those  who  count  threescore-and-ten 

full  circles  past 
Tell  how  much  they  have  gained  and  lost,  —  how 

much  they  hold  at  last ! 
Napoleon  and  Columbus,  and  legions  more  whose 

names 
We  never  even  heard  of,  —  these  were  men  of  lofty 

aims ! 

IV. 

So,  in  this  softened,  yellow  light,  with  Jack  upon 
my  knees, 

I  find  my  good  in  being  just  as  lazy  as  I 
please  ; 

My  pipe-smoke  floats  aspiringly,  and  that,  I  'm 
fain  to  say, 

Is  as  much  of  aspiration  as  I  care  to  see  to 
day  ; 

Though  Jack,  disturbed  by  canine  dreams,  gives 
forth  a  sleepy  cry, 

And,  full  of  lofty  aims,  prepares  to  conquer  or  to 
die; 


62  Wool-Gathering. 

No  doubt  some  mighty,  spectral  rat  glares  through 
his  visions  dim, 

Which  Jack  is  bound  to  vanquish,  or  the  rat  will 
vanquish  him  ! 

Well,  well,  my  dog,  be  wise,  and  all  these  high  am 
bitions  keep  ; 

Unlike  poor  man,  indulge  them  only  when  you  are 
asleep  !  — 

What 's  this  ?  I  find  that  while  in  praise  of  lazi 
ness  I  sang, 

I  Ve  worked  quite  hard  to  write  a  metaphysical 
harangue ! 

Well,  thus  it  is  ;  consistency  exists  on  earth  no 
more,  — 

My  pipe  is  out,  my  dog  has  waked,  my  laziness  is 
o'er  ! 


T 


THE    TWO    AUTUMNS. 

HE  tall  grass  waves  o'er  lowly  graves, 
The  golden  sunshine  floods  the  meadows, 
And  in  the  breeze,  the  willow-trees, 
That  guard  the  tomb  of  Eloise, 
Wave  to  and  fro,  with  flickering  shadows. 

And  here  I  sit,  while  bright  birds  flit 
Among  the  gravestones  whitely  gleaming, 
And  muse  away  the  summer  day 
Beneath  the  vines'  and  willows'  sway,  — 
On  that  fair  maiden's  memory  dreaming. 

O'er  fields  unmown  the  poppy  shone, 
The  .earliest  rose  had  hardly  perished, 

When  she  confessed  that  in  her  breast 
Young  Love  was  throned,  a  royal  guest,- 
My  image  there  alone  she  cherished. 


64  The  Two  Autumns, 

O  happy  hour,  when  from  her  bower, 
With  clambering  grape-vines  close  entangled, 
We  saw  the  moon  of  leafy  June 
Rise  calmly  o'er  the  wide  lagoon, 
And  climb  the  sky  with  bright  stars  spangled. 

Her  deep  blue  eyes,  like  tropic  skies,  — 
Not  less  profound,  and  never  colder,  — 
Were  fixed  on  mine  with  gaze  divine, 
And,  golden  as  the  German  wine, 
Her  regal  ringlets  swept  her  shoulder. 


Her  little  hand,  which  scarcely  spanned 
With  timid  clasp  my  first  three  fingers, 

Her  lip,  her  cheek,  which  bees  might  seek ; 

Her  voice  —  but,  ah  !  mere  words  are  weak 
To  paint  the  joys  where  memory  lingers! 

The  summer  passed,  and  autumn's  blast 
Swept  bleakly  cold  across  the  heather  ; 


The  Two  Autumns.  65 

The  bright  leaves  browned,  'neath  skies  that 

frowned, 

Then  whirled  in  circles  to  the  ground, 
And  strewed  the  paths  we  trod  together. 

0  heavy  grief!  with  autumn's  leaf 

They  told  me  that  her  days  were  numbered  : 
She  passed  away,  —  her  mortal  clay 
In  death's  pale  beauty  silent  lay,  .* 

As  calm  as  if  she  only  slumbered. 

1  sit  among  the  graves  o'erhung 
With  many  a  slender-threaded  willow ; 

The  churchyard  mould  seems  now  less  cold 
Since,  deep  beneath,  those  locks  of  gold 
Have  found  a  soft  and  dreamless  pillow. 

About  the  tombs  the  laurel  blooms, 
I  hear  the  bees  above  it  humming, 
The  zephyrs  sigh,  in  floating  by  ; 
They  bring  the  scent  of  ripened  rye, 
And  tell  another  autumn  coming. 
5 


66  The  Two  Autumns. 

Far  down  upon  the  horizon 

A  purple  haze  is  softly  falling, 

The  fading  rose  of  summer  goes, 
And  distant  bells,  at  day's  repose, 

Unto  my  inner  ear  are  calling. 

Ah,  dreamily  they  say  to  me 
That  those,  who  here  are  called  to  sever, 

Are  elsewhere  blessed  with  peace  and  rest, 

And  I,  unto  this  lonely  breast 
Shall  clasp  my  Eloise  forever. 


ALONE    BY    THE    HEARTH. 

HERE,  in  my  snug  little  fire-lit  chamber, 
Sit  I  alone ; 

And,  as  I  gaze  in  the  coals,  I  remember 
Days  long  agone. 

Saddening  it  is,  when  the  night  has  descended, 

•  Thus  to  sit  here, 

Pensively  musing  on  episodes,  ended 
Many  a  year. 

Still  in  my  visions  a  golden-haired  glory 

Floats  to  and  fro  ; 
She  whom  I  loved,  —  but  't  is  just  the  old  story, 

Dead,  long  ago  ! 

'T  is  but  the  wraith  of  a  love ;  yet  I  linger 
(Thus  passion  errs), 


68  Alone  by  the  Hearth. 

Foolishly  kissing  the  ring  on  my  finger,  — 
Once  it  was  hers. 

Nothing  has  changed  since  her  spirit  departed, 

Here,  in  this  room, 
Save  I,  who,  weary  and  half  broken-hearted, 

Sit  in  the  gloom. 

Loud  'gainst  the  window  the  winter. rain  dashes, 

Dreary  and  cold  ; 
Over  the  floor  the  red  fire-light  flashes 

Just  as  of  old. 

Just  as  of  old,  —  but  the  embers  are  scattered, 

Whose  ruddy  blaze 
Flashed  o'er  the  floor  where  her  fairy  feet  pattered 

In  other  days ! 

Then,  her  dear  voice,  like  a  silver-chime  ringing, 

Melted  away  ; 
Often  these  walls  have  re-echoed  her  singing 

Now  hushed  for  aye  ! 


Alone  by  the  Hearth.  69 

Why  should  love  bring  naught  but  sorrow,  I  won 
der  ? 

Everything  dies  ! 
Time  and  Death,  sooner  or  later,  must  sunder 

Holiest  ties. 

Years  have  rolled  by ;  I  am  wiser  and  older,  — 

Wiser,  but  yet, 
Not  till  my  heart  and  its  feelings  grow  colder, 

Can  I  forget. 

So,  in  my  snug  little  fire-lit  chamber, 

Sit  I  alone ; 
And,  as  I  gaze  in  the  coals,  I  remember 

Days  long  agone ! 


THE    GARDEN    OF    MEMORY. 

r  I  ^HERE  is  a  garden  which  my  memory  knows, 
•*•     A  grand  old  garden  of  the  days  gone  by, 

Where  lofty  trees  invite  the  breeze, 
And  underneath  them  blooms  full  many  a  rose, 

Of  rarest  crimson  or  deep  purple  dye  ; 
And  there  extend  as  far  as  eye  can  see, 
Dim  vistas  of  cool  greenery. 

Quaint   marble    statues,   clothed   with    vines   and 

mould, 

Gleam  gray  and  spectral  'mid  the  foliage  there : 
Grimly  they  stand  on  every  hand, 
Along  the  walk  whose  sands  are  smoothly  rolled, 
And  borders   trimmed  with  constant,  watchful 

care  : 

There  Memory  sits,  and  hears  soft  voices  call 
Above  the  plashing  waterfall. 


The  Garden  of  Memory.  71 

Old,  faded  bowers,  with  their  rustic  seats 
Of  knotted  branches  closely  intertwined, 
May  there  be  seen  the  walks  between : 

Within  their  shade  the  dove  at  noon  retreats, 
And  gives  her  sad  voice  to  the  summer  wind  ; 

Around  them  bloom  rich  flowers,  where  all   day 
long 

The  wild  bee  drones  his  dreamy  song. 

The  garden  stretches  downward  to  a  lake, 
Where  gentle  ripples  kiss  a  pebbly  shore  : 
All  cool  and  deep  the  waters  sleep, 

With  naught  the  calm  of  their  repose  to  break 
Save  now  and  then  the  plashing  of  an  oar, 

Or  the  long  train  of  diamond  sparkles  bright 

Left  by  the  wayward  swallow's  flight. 

Within  that  garden  Memory  oft  recalls 

Gay  friends,  who  lived,  and  loved,  and  passed 

away : 
Who  met  at  morn  upon  the  lawn, 


72  The  Garden  of  Memory. 

And  strolled  in  couples  by  the  garden-walls, 

Or  on  the  grass  beneath  the  maples  lay, 
And  passed  the  hours  as  gayly  as  might  be, 
With  olden  tales  of  chivalry. 

The  younger  maidens,  each  with  silken  net, 

Chased  butterflies  that  hung,  on  painted  wings, 
Above  the  beds  where  poppy-heads 

Drooped  heavily  with  morning  dew-drops  wet : 
In  recollection  still  their  laughter  rings, 

And  still  I  seem  to  see  them  sport  among 

The  statues  gray,  with  vines  o'erhung 

One  sainted  maiden  I  remember  well, 

And    shall    remember,  though   all    else    should 
fade: 

Her  dreamy  eyes,  her  gentle  sighs, 
Her  golden  hair  in  tangled  curls  that  fell, 

Her  queen-like  beauty  and  demeanor  staid, 
And  O,  her  smile,  that  played  at  hide-and-seek 
With  dimples  on  her  chin  and  cheek  ! 


The  Garden  of  Memory.  73 

O  Edith !  often  have  we  sat  at  rest, 

And   watched    the    sunset    from    the    Lover's 

Hill, 

When  few,  faint  stars  shone  through  the  bars 
Of  purple  cloud  that  stretched  athwart  the  west ; 

And  Nature's  pulse  seemed  silently  to  thrill, 
While  Night  came  o'er  the  moorlands  wide  and 

brown, 
On  dusky  pinions  sweeping  down. 

Long  years  have  faded  since  those  happy  days, 
Yet  still  in  memory  are  their  joys  enshrined. 
Tall  grasses  wave  o'er  Edith's  grave ; 

Above  her  breast  the  birds  sing  plaintive  lays  ; 
Yet  still  I  feel  her  arms  about  me  twined  ; 

Still  float  her  tangled  tresses  in  the  breeze ; 

Still  sit  we  'neath  the  maple-trees. 

Thus  may  it  be,  until  I  too  am  gone ! 

Thus  let  me  ever  dream  of  youth  and  love ! 
And  when  the  strife  of  earthly  life 


74  The  Garden  of  Memory. 

Is  past ;  when  all  my  weary  tasks  are  done, 
I  know  that  in  some  garden  there,  above, 
My  angel  EDITH  waits  to  welcome  me 
Unto  thy  halls,  Eternity  1 


AN    IDYL    OF    OCTOBER. 

T  ULIE,  Mary,  Billy,  and  I, 

J     Walked  down  the  cedar-lane  one  day, 
When  the  sun  was  bright  in  an  autumn  sky, 

And  the  trees  with  their  autumn  tints  were  gay  ; 
Down  to  the  bridge  our  way  we  took, 

Past  the  chestnuts  that  crown  the  hill, — 
Down  to  the  bridge  that  crosses  the  brook, 

On  the  road  to  the  cider-mill. 

A  year  before,  we  had  trod  the  lane, 

And  then,  half-jesting,  ourselves  we  bound 
To  take  the  selfsame  walk  again, 

When  another  year  had  rolled  around  ;  — 
So,  when  another  October  glowed 

On  shrubby  hollow  and  wooded  ridge, 
It  found  us  threading  the  cedar-road, 

And  loitering  on  the  bridge. 


76  An  Idyl  of  October. 

The  water  swirled  'mong  the  oaken  posts, 

In  long,  dark  currents,  eddying  by, 
And  floating  leaves,  like  shadowy  ghosts, 

Were  borne  on  its  bosom  silently. 
The  breezes  dallied  with  Julie's  hair, 

Where  mingling  gold  and  amber  played ; 
Fair  Mary's  face  seemed  still  more  fair 

In  the  flickering  shine  and  shade. 

We  feasted  our  eyes  on  the  pleasant  scene, 

We  gathered  leaves  of  a  thousand  dyes,  — : 
Speckled  with  crimson,  spotted  with  green, 

And  shaded  with  hues  from  Paradise  ; 
We  sang  and  shouted,  we  laughed  and  talked, 

Till  the  woods  were  loud  with  our  echoed  glee ;  — 
O,  never  a  merrier  party  walked 

In  a  place  more  fair  to  see ! 

Last  year,  when  under  the  autumn  sky, 

Through  these  bright  autumn  woods  we  strolled, 

We  met  a  lassie,  pretty  and  shy, 

Mayhap  some  seventeen  summers  old  : 


An  Idyl  of  October.  77 

A  blue-eyed,  bashful  country  maid, 

Who  passed  us,  timidly  glancing  down, 

Her  blue  eyes  taking  a  deeper  shade 
From  their  lashes  long  and  brown. 

I,  who  have  ever  been  farceur,  — 

Loving  a  merry  word  alway,  — 
Feigned  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  her,  — 

A  new-born  passion,  to  last  for  aye. 
So,  when  we  spoke  of  the  cedar-lane, 

And  plans  for  this  year's  ramble  laid, 
We  wondered  if  we  should  meet  again 

With  the  blue-eyed,  bashful  maid. 

Then,  I  said  that  if  we  should  meet 

With  the  country  lassie,  modest  and  fair, 
There  on  the  bridge  would  I  kneel  at  her  feet, 

And  all  my  passion  for  her  declare  .  .  . 
Well,  as  we  came  to  the  foot  of  the  hill, 

Where  the  maples  glow  like  a  colored  flame, 
Down  the  road  to  the  cider-mill, 

The  blue-eyed  damsel  came  ! 


78  An  Idyl  of  October. 

But,  alas  for  the  ways  of  destiny  ! 

I  spied  some  leaves  so  gorgeously  hued, 
Decking  the  boughs  of  a  maple-tree, 

By  a  fence  between  the  road  and  the  wood, 
That  I  vowed  to  have  them  whether  or  no,  — 

Coveting  beauty  as  some  covet  pelf,  — 
And,  venturing  where  the  ground  was  low, 

In  a  swamp  I  found  myself. 

There  I  gathered  the  prettiest  leaves, 

Standing,  the  while,  on  treacherous  ground,  — 
Such  fair  chaplets  as  Nature  weaves 

When  Autumn,  King  of  the  Year,  is  crowned,— 
And  there,  alone,  long  after  its  time, 

I  found  a  heaven-blue  violet, 
Gleaming  up  from  the  ooze  and  slime 

Like  a  jewel,  foully  set. 

Many  a  leaf  of  orange  and  red, 

Gold  and  purple,  scarlet  and  brown, 

I  found  on  the  branches  overhead, 

Or  where  the  wind  had  rustled  them  down  ; 


An  Idyl  of  October.  79 

Gathering  these,  no  heed  I  paid 

To  anything  save  my  leafy  load, 
And  the  blue-eyed,  bashful  country  maid 

Had  gone,  when  I  gained  the  road  ! 

But  Julie  and  Mary  both  were  there,  — 

Better  than  bashful  maids  are  they,  — 
The  blue-eyed  lassie  is  not  more  fair, 

And  not  more  modest,  as  I  dare  say  ; 
I  felt  some  pride,  as  surely  I  might, 

When  I  showed  my  leaves  and  my  violet ;  — 
Those  autumn  colors  were  wondrous  bright, 

But  those  faces  were  brighter  yet ! 

Whenever  I  see  those  leaves  again, 

Pressed  and  varnished  by  Julie's  skill, 
I  shall  think  of  our  walk  in  the  cedar-lane, 

And  the  bridge  on  the  road  to  the  cider-mill ; 
And  if  e'er  for  the  bashful  lassie  I  sigh,  — 

I,  who  have  ever  been  farceur, — 
I  will  see  that  she  does  not  pass  me  by  ;  — 

I  '11  wait  on  the  bridge  for  her  ! 


-ALL    FOR    LOVE." 

ABOUT  the  pool  the  pansies  blow, 
Fair  they  bloom  in  the  summer  sun, 
With  violets  on  the  bank  below 

And  tangled  vines  that  at  random  run  ; 
The  water  is  dark,  and  cool,  and  green, 

Its  surface  touched  by  misty  rays 
That  slant  the  willow  boughs  between 
On  sunny,  summer  days. 

Across  the  pool  the  winged  seeds 

Hither  and  thither  lightly  flaunt, 
Blown  from  the  shore  of  bristling  reeds 

That  gauzy  dragon-flies  love  to  haunt  ; 
The  shallows  all  are  thickly  set 

With  lily-leaves  and  blossoms  white,  — 
Their  fragrant  petals  glistening  wet 

With  dewdrops,  diamond-bright. 


All  for  Love.  81 

A  silence  reigns  upon  the  air, 

Upon  the  pansies  by  the  shore, 
Upon  the  violets,  pale  and  fair, 

Upon  the  willow,  bending  o'er  ; 
The  reeds  and  lilies  silent  grow, 

The  dark  green  waters  silent  sleep, 
Save  when  the  summer  breezes  blow, 

Or  silvery  minnows  leap. 

Adown  the  path,  that  hidden  lies 

Under  the  chestnuts  on  the  hill, 
Came  pretty  May  with  the  hazel  eyes, 

Whose  father  kept  the  neighboring  mill. 
Wild  she  muttered  and  long  she  gazed, 

Loosely  floated  her  fair,  brown  hair  : 
Like  one  by  a  heavy  sorrow  crazed 

She  laughed  and  whispered  there. 

Alas  !  her  story  was  just  the  same 

That  poets  have  told  since  poets  have  sung,  — 
Beginning  in  love,  to  end  in  shame, 

When  hope  grows  old  while  life  is  young  ! 


82  All  for  Love. 

So,  sighing  wearily,  down  she  strayed, 

While  the  sunshine  slept  on  the  silent  pool, 

To  the  flowery  bank,  and  the  willow's  shade, 
And  the  water,  deep  and  cool. 

About  the  pool  the  pansies  blow, 

Fair  in  the  summer  sun  they  bloom, 
But  the  water  is  dark  that  lies  below,  — 

Dark  and  silent  as  is  the  tomb  : 
And  I  seem  to  see,  wherever  I  tread 

The  reedy  shore  where  the  willow  stands, 
The  sorrowing  wraith  of  one  long  dead, 

Wringing  her  ghostly  hands. 

The  mill  and  miller  have  long  been  gone, 

The  father  sleeps  by  his  daughter's  side, 
And  many  a  summer's  sun  has  shone 

Since  hazel-eyed  May  lived,  loved,  and  died  ; 
Yet  still  in  passing,  the  neighbors  pause, 

And  say,  as  they  glance  from  the  hill  above, 
"  Let  us  forgive  the  child,  because 

Her  sorrow  was  born  of  love  !  " 


THE    BALLAD    OF    ROSALIE 


T")  OS  A  LIE  was  strangely  fair 
•*•  ^       —  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
With  her  splendid  torrent  of  tawny  hair, 
And  her  terrible,  beautiful  eye. 


Love  for  her  had  made  me  blind, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
Her  heart  was  false  as  the  summer  wind, 

Her  truest  truth  was  a  lie. 

O,  but  she  vowed  by  that  and  by  this ! 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
O,  but  her  lips  were  sweet  to  kiss, 

And,  O,  but  her  heart  was  dry. 

A  chaplet  once  I  saw  her  weave, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 


84  The  Ballad  of  Rosalie. 

Her  girdle  pressed  against  my  sleeve  ; 
My  cheek  warmed  to  her  sigh. 

That  night,  wine  in  the  cup  was  red, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
The  chaplet  shone  on  Rosalie's  head, 

So  Roland's  time  drew  nigh. 

Song  and  laughter,  peal  on  peal ! 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
They  could  not  hear  the  clash  of  steel, 

Their  merriment  rang  so  high. 

Under  the  trees  I  left  the  knight, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
My  blade  was  crimson  ;  his  face  was  white  ; 

I  wear  good  steel  on  thigh. 

Morning  came  and  the  broad  light  shone, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
The  dancers  and  revellers  all  had  gone 

When  the  sun  climbed  up  the  sky. 


The  Ballad  of  Rosalie.  85 

Rosalie  lay  by  the  castle  moat, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
A  dark,  red  line  across  her  throat. 

—  'T  were  pity  that  she  should  die  ! 

Her  bright  hair  gleamed  by  the  water-side, 

—  Slow  and  weary  the  days  go  by  — 
How  she  was  loved  and  how  she  died 

Nobody  knows  but  I. 


TRAILING    ARBUTUS. 


\  T  7ANDERING  over  the  breezy  slopes 

*  *      Where  the  trailing  arbutus  grows, 
(That  little  flower  that  timidly  opes, 
While  the  wind  of  March  still  blows, 
Its  delicate  buds  of  the  palest  rose, 
And  blossoms  white  as  eternal  snows), 
O  Love,  we  walked,  and  cheerily  talked, 
That  breezy,  blustering  day, 
Where  the  March  winds  blow,  and  the  pink  buds 

grow, 

Wet  with  the  morning's  crystalline  dew, 
And  far  below  us,  stretching  away 
'Neath  the  sky  with  its  spring-time  azure  hue, 
The  heaving,  flashing,  glittering  bay 
In  solemn  breadth  and  beauty  lay ! 


Trailing  Arbutus.  87 

n. 

Sitcing  under  the  cedar-trees, 
Inhaling  their  odor  rare, 
With  the  swaying,  swinging,  dallying  breeze 
Playing  among  thy  hair, 
Ah,  still  my  fancy  thy  image  sees,  — 
The  checkered  shadow  and  shine  on  thy  face, 
Lighting  the  place  with  a  holy  grace, 
While  thy  voice  was  lifted  in  ballads  old 
Of  maids  who  were  fair,  and  men  who  were  bold, — 
Ah,  heaven  !  thou  too  wert  fair  ! 

III. 

The  wind  is  blowing  and  blustering  still 

On  the  lofty  cedared  slopes, 

And  still  on  the  southerly  face  of  the  hill 

The  trailing  arbutus  opes  ; 

But  alone  I  sit  'neath  the  cedar-trees,  — 

Alone  with  the  boisterous,  blustering  breeze, 

The  flowers,  and  my  own  sad  memories  ; 

While  the  murmur  that  comes  from  the  flashing  seas 

Whispers  to  me,  all  solemnly, 


88  Trailing  Arbutus. 

That  love  is  only  a  vanity  !  .  .  . 

Well,  it  has  flown,  as  the  winds  have  blown 

Last  autumn's  dead  leaves  rustling  down. 

Each  spring,  the  trailing  arbutus  grows 

When  the  March  wind  blows,  but  love,  when  it 

goes, 
Alas,  is  forever  gone  ! 


THE    OLD    PLACE. 

T    STAND  on  the  shore  of  a  moonlit  sea, 

Under  the  stars  of  a  summer  sky, 
And  sad  are  the  thoughts  that  come  to  me, 
As  the  sorrowful  night-wind  whispers  by. 

'T  is  the  same  old  sea  whose  voices  call, 

The  same  old  stars,  with  their  twinkling  eyes, 

The  same  old  moonlight  silvers  all, 

And  the  same  old  solemn  thoughts  arise. 

Naught  in  the  scene  has  changed,  for  years, 
Waves,  nor  stars,  nor  moonlight  fair ; 

And  here  in  my  eyes  are  the  same  old  tears, 
For  the  same  old  hopeless  love  I  bear. 


THE    GIFT    OF    LOVE. 

GIVE  me,"  I  said,  "  that  ring, 
Which  on  thy  taper  finger  gleams  ; 
Sweet  thoughts  to  me  't  will  bring, 
When  summer  sunset's  beams 
Have  faded  o'er  the  western  sea, 
And  left  me  dreaming,  Love,  of  thee  !  " 

"  O  no  !  "  the  maiden  cried  ; 
"  This  shining  ring  is  bright,  but  cold  : 

That  bond  is  loosely  tied 
Which  must  be  clasped  with  gold  ! 

The  ring  would  soon  forgotten  be  : 

Some  better  gift  I  '11  give  to  thee  !  " 

"  Then  give  me  that  red  rose," 
Said  I,  "  which  on  thy  bosom  heaves 
In  ecstasied  repose, 


The  Gift  of  Love.  91 

And  droops  its  blushing  leaves : 

If  thou  wouldst  have  me  think  of  thee, 
Fair  maiden,  give  the  rose  to  me  ! " 

"  O  no  !  "  she  softly  said, 
"  I  will  not  give  thee  any  flower  : 

This  rose  will  surely  fade  ; 
It  passes  with  the  hour  : 

A  faded  rose  can  never  be 

An  emblem  of  my  love  for  thee  ! " 

"  Then  give  me  but  thy  word,  — 
A  vow  of  love,  —  't  were  better  yet," 

I  cried  ;  "  who  once  has  heard 
Such  vows,  can  ne'er  forget ! 

If  thou  wilt  give  this  pledge  to  me, 

Nor  ring  nor  rose  I  '11  ask  of  thee  ! " 

"  O  no  !  "  she  said  again  ; 
"  For  spoken  vows  are  empty  breath, 

Whose  memory  is  vain 
When  passion  perisheth  : 


92  The  Gift  of  Love. 

If  e'er  I  lose  my  love  for  thee, 
My  vows  must  all  forgotten  be  !  " 

"  Then  what,"  I  asked,  "  wilt  thou, 
O  dearest  !  to  thy  lover  give  ? 

Nor  ring  nor  rose  nor  vow 
May  I  from  thee  receive  ; 

And  yet  some  symbol  should  there  be 

To  typify  thy  love  for  me  !  " 

Then  dropped  her  silvery  voice 
Unto  a  whisper,  soft  and  low  : 

"  Here,  take  this  gift, — my  choice,  — 
The  sweetest  love  can  know  !  " 

She  raised  her  head  all  lovingly, 

And  smiling,  gave  —  a  kiss  to  me  ! 


T 


MY    LOVE. 

1HINE  is  a  little  hand,  — 
A  tiny,  little  hand,  — 

Yet  if  it  clasp 

.With  timid  grasp 

Mine  own,  ah  me !  I  well  can  understand 
The  pressure  of  that  little  hand  ! 

Thine  is  a  little  mouth,  — 
A  very  little  mouth,  — 
Yet,  ah  !  what  bliss 
To  steal  a  kiss, 

Sweet  as  the  honeyed  zephyrs  of  the  south, 
From  that  same  rosy  little  mouth  ! 

Thine  is  a  little  heart,  — 
A  little,  fluttering  heart,  — 


94  My  Love. 

Yet  is  it  warm 
And  pure  and  calm, 

And  loves  me  with  its  whole  untutored  art, 
That  fond  and  faithful  little  heart ! 

Thou  art  a  little  girl,  — 
Only  a  little  girl,  — 

Yet  art  thou  worth 
The  wealth  of  earth  — 

Diamond  and  ruby,  sapphire,  gold,  and  pearl 
To  me,  thou  blessed  little  girl ! 


MINNIE'S    ANSWER. 


'T^HERE  'S  a  certain  girlish  grace 

Hovers  round  thy  form  ; 
Sits  upon  thy  beaming  face, 
Sweetly  blended  with  a  trace 

Of  a  riper  charm. 
Should  I  say,  "  I  love  but  thee," 
Minnie,  were  it  safe  for  me  ? 

There  's  a  certain  burning  look 
Darting  from  thine  eye,  — 

Reads  my  soul  as  't  were  a  book, 

Searches  every  hidden  nook 
E'en  in  passing  by. 

Shouldst  thou  fall  in  love  with  me, 

Minnie,  were  it  safe  for  thee  ? 

Then  this  loveliest  of  girls 
Raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  — 


Q6  Minnie  s  Answer. 

Smiled,  and  brushed  away  her  curls, 
Smiled,  —  with  teeth  like  matchless  pearls, 

Lips  like  matchless  wine,  — 
And  she  softly  said  to  me, 

"  I  would  take  my  chance  with  thee." 


AU    COMBLE. 

T  T  EART  of  hearts  and  pearl  of  pearls, 
-*-  -••    Dearest  of  all  darling  girls  ! 

Can  I  make  mere  language  say 

How  I  love  thee,  night  and  day  ? 

Can  I  find,  in  head  or  heart, 

Words  to  tell  how  fair  thou  art  ? 

Suns  and  moons  may  never  shine 

On  a  face  and  form  like  thine  : 

Rolling  years  may  never  see 

Love  more  deep  than  mine  for  thee  ! 

I  have  known  diviner  rest, 

Softly  pillowed  on  thy  breast, 

Than  could  ever  haunt  at  night 

Rosy  couch  of  Sybarite  ; 

And  no  music  ever  fell  - — 

Song  of  bird,  or  silver  bell  — 

Half  so  sweetly  on  mine  ear 

As  thy  laughter,  rich  and  clear  ! 
7 


Au  Comble. 

Now,  since  love  is  life  to  us, 
Let  us  love  forever  thus  ! 
Knowing  that  a  brighter  day 
Shall  behold  us  joined  for  aye  ; 
For,  to  us,  to  love  't  is  given, 
Here  on  earth  and  there  in  heaven. 


SWEET    IMPATIENCE. 

i. 

THE  sunlight  glimmers  dull  and  gray 
Upon  my  wall  to-day  ; 
This  summer  is  too  long  : 
The  hot  days  go 
Weary  and  slow 
As  if  time's  reckoning  were  perverse  and  wrong 

But  when  the  flowers 

Have  faded,  and  their  bloom  has  passed  away, 
Then  shall  my  song 
Be  all  of  happier  hours, 
And  more  than  one  fond  heart  shall  then  be  gay. 

n. 
But  song  can  never  tell 

How  much  I  long  to  hear 
One  voice,  that  like  the  echo  of  a  silver  bell, 


ioo  Sweet  Impatience. 

Unconscious,  low,  and  clear, 
Falls,  as  aforetime  angel-voices  fell 
On  Saint  Cecelia's  ear  : 
And  it  will  come  again, 
And  I  shall  hear  it,  when 
The  droning  summer  bee  forgets  his  song 
And  frosty  autumn  crimsons  hill  and  dell  : 

I  shall  not  murmur,  then, 
"  This  summer  is  too  long  !  " 

in. 
The  trellised  grapes  shall  purple  be, 

And  all 

The  forest  aisles  re-echo  merrily 
The  brown  quail's  call, 
And  glossy  chestnuts  fall 
In  pattering  plenty  from  the  leafless  tree 

When  autumn  winds  blow  strong  : 
Then  shall  I  see 

Her  worshipped  face  once  more,  and  in  its  sun 
shine,  I 
Shall  cease  to  sigh 

"  This  summer  is  too  long  !  " 


Sweet  Impatience.  101 

IV. 

Meanwhile,  I  wander  up  and  down 
The  noisy  town, 
Alone : 

I  miss  the  lithe  form  from  my  side, 
The  kind,  caressing  tone, 
The  gentle  eyes 
In  whose  soft  depths  so  much  of  loving  lies  ; 

And  lonely  in  the  throng,  —  , 

Each  jostling,  bustling,  grasping  for  his  own,  — 
The  weary  words  arise, 

"  This  summer  is  too  long  ! " 

v. 

Haste,  happy  hours,  — 
Fade,  tardy,  lingering  flowers  ! 
Your  fragrance  has  departed,  long  ago  ; 

I   yearn  for  cold  winds,  whistling  through  the 

ruined  bowers, 
For  winter's  snow, 

If  with  them,  she 
May  come  to  teach  my  heart  a  cheerier  song, 


Sweet  Impatience. 


And  lovingly 
Make  me  forget  all  weariness  and  severance  and 

wrong, 

Whispering  close  and  low, 
"  Here  are  we  still  together,  Love,  although 
The  summer  was  so  long  !  " 


i 


AN    AUTUMN    JOY. 

T  is  a  fair  autumnal  day, 

The  ground  is  strewn  with  yellow  leaves  ; 
The  maple  stems  gleam  bare  and  gray, 

The  grain  is  piled  in  golden  sheaves  ; 
Afar  I  hear  the  speckled  quails 

Pipe  shrill  amid  the  stubble  dry, 
And  muffled  beats  from  busy  flails     ' 

Within  the  barn  near  by. 

The  latest  roses  now  are  dead, 

Their  petals  scattered  far  and  wide, 
The  sumac-berries,  richly  red, 

Bedeck  the  lane  on  either  side  ; 
A  dreamy  calm  is  in  the  air, 

A  dreamy  echo  on  the  sea  : 
Ah,  never  was  a  day  more  fair 

Than  this,  which  comes  to  me ! 


IO4  -An  Autumn  Joy. 

I  see  the  stacks  of  ripened  corn, 

The  golden  sunshine  on  the  roof, 
The  diamond  dew-drops  of  the  morn, 

That  string  with  gems  the  spider's  woof ; 
An  azure  haze  is  hanging  low 

About  the  outline  of  the  hills, 
And  chanting  sea-fowl  southward  go 

From  marshes,  lakes,  and  kils. 

For  many  years,  the  autumn  brought 

A  plaintive  sadness  to  my  soul, 
That  shaded  e'en  my  brightest  thought, 

And  on  my  gayest  moments  stole  ; 
'T  was  sad,  yet  sweet,  a  strange  alloy 

Of  hope  and  sorrow  intertwined  : 
This  autumn  brings  me  only  joy, 

No  shadow  haunts  my  mind. 

And  why  is  this  ?     The  dead  leaves  fall, 
The  blossoms  wither,  as  of  old, 

And  winter  comes,  with  snowy  pall, 
To  wrap  the  earth  so  deathly  cold  ; 


An  Atitumn  Joy.  »          105 

The  sea-fowl,  strung  athwart  the  sky, 
Still  chant  their  plaintive  monotone  ; 

And  why,  when  leaves  and  blossoms  die, 
Should  I  feel  joy  alone  ? 

O,  ask  me  not,  —  I  dare  not  tell  ; 

I  must  not  all  my  heart  disclose. 
I  think  a  fairy  wove  a  spell 

About  me,  when  decayed  the  rose  ! 
Two  gifts  did  dying  summer  bring,  — 

Two  symbols  of  undying  bliss,  — 
Upon  my  finger  glows  a  ring, 

Upon  my  lips,  a  kiss ! 


IN    VAIN. 

\T7HY  were  you  kind,  —  O,  why  ? 

*  *      Why  did  you  smile  instead  of  frowning, 
When  Love  in  Lethe's  wave  was  drowning  ? 
Why  were  you  kind,  —  O,  why  ? 

If  you  had  looked  on  me 
With  scorn,  or  wrath,  or  cold  disdaining, 
My  love  for  you  had  now  been  waning  ; 

Why  did  you  smile  on  me  ? 

Long  had  I  loved  ;  but  Time, 
Who  softens  all  things,  was  beguiling 
My  weary  heart,  when,  with  your  smiling, 

You  came  a  second  time  ! 

And  now,  alas  !  again 
I  bear  love's  chains,  and,  musing  lonely, 


In    Vain.  107 

Hear  your  sweet  voice  and  see  you  only,  — 
Why  were  you  kind  again  ? 

If  all  your  love  were  dead, 
Why  did  you  kiss  me,  when  we  parted  ? 
Do  we  "  forget,"  when  broken-hearted  ? 

Ah  that  I,  too,  were  dead  ! 


GONE. 

HT^HE  summer  was  long  and  sweet, 

The  roses  blossomed  for  me 
Over  a  porch  where  fairy  feet 
Went  pattering  merrily. 

All  summer  the  roses  smiled, 
Hiding  their  thorns  from  sight  ; 

All  summer  my  passionate  heart  beat  wild 
With  a  feverish  love  and  delight. 

Now,  autumn's  rain-drops  beat 

On  the  casement,  drearily  ;  — 
The  summer  I  found  so  long  and  sweet 

Has  faded  forever  from  me  ! 

Under  each  thorny  bough 

The  roses  are  withering  fast, 
And  my  passionate  heart  beats  slower,  now, 

For  the  fever  of  love  is  past ! 


DE    PROFUNDIS. 


/T^H ROUGH  the  vague  rifts  in  pearly  clouds 

that  lie 

Along  the  horizon,  'twixt  sky  and  sea, 
A  planet's  trembling  radiance  gleams  on  high, 
Far,  far  from  me. 


The  gentle  breeze  of  evening  loiters  on, 

Faint  with  the  breath  of  many  a  tropic  tree, 
But  groves  of  sandal,  spice,  and  cinnamon 
Are  far  from  me. 

O  Love  !  I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  ; 

Sweet  airs  and  silvery  lights  encompass  thee, 
But  —  like  the  spice  groves  and  the  evening  star  — 
Far,  far  from  me  ! 


A    FAREWELL. 

THE  west-wind,  laden  with  fragrance,  blows, 
The  dewdrops  shine  in  the  crimson  rose  ; 

—  Is  there  something  yet  to  tell  ? 
Ay,  winds  must  pass  and  dewdrops  fall ; 
Naught  that  is  gone  can  we  recall : 

So  now,  dear  Love,  farewell ! 

Sweet  lips  prattle  and  laugh  and  sing, 
White  arms  tenderly,  closely  cling  ; 

—  Is  there  something  sad  to  tell  ? 
Ay,  the  sweet  lips  shall  silent  be, 
And  the  arms  unclasp  in  their  agony : 

So  now,  dear  Love,  farewell  ! 

Then  is  there  nothing  that  God  has  made 
That  will  not  one  day  fall  or  fade  ? 

—  O  Poet,  in  mercy  tell  ! 


A  Farewell.  in 

Ay,  love  shall  reign  in  these  hearts  of  ours 
When  eyes  and  lips  and  wind-waved  flowers 
Have  known  their  last  farewell. 

For  love  is  purer  than  dewdrops  are, 
The  winds  go  never  so  wide  and  far, 

And  none  may  truly  tell 
How,  when  the  close  caress  is  gone, 
And  words  are  silent,  true  love  lives  on, 

Never  to  say  farewell ! 


VALE  ! 

GENTLEST  season  of  the  changing  year, 

Though  thy  bright  days  are  past, 
Our  hearts  will  ever  hold  thy  memory  dear 

So  long  as  memories  last : 
Gladly  each  year  we  see  thy  pageant  glow 
Through  amber  days  with  air  like  hydromel, 
And  now  we  sigh  in  whispers  sad  and  slow, 
"  Farewell,  farewell !  " 

Through  the  dim  vista  of  the  forest  nook 

Fall  bars  of  shade  and  shine, 
And  o'er  the  shimmering  ripples  of  the  brook 

Swings  the  clematis  vine  : 
The  breeze  comes  faintly  from  the  far-off  sea 
To  linger  in  the  leafy  inland  dell, 
And  sings  October's  dreamy  monody, 

Farewell,  farewell ! 


Vale !  113 

The  withered  meadow-grasses,  white  and  brown, 

Gleam  in  the  autumn  air, 
Where  shining  stars  of  silvery  cotton-down 

Go  sailing  here  and  there  : 
Decadence  sits  upon  the  fading  earth, 
Her  flowers  have  felt  the  touch  of  Azrael ; 
To  blooming  sights  and  chirping  sounds  of  mirth, 

Farewell,  farewell ! 

The  day  declines,  and  cloudy  phantoms  drift 

About  the  distant  west, 
Where  many  a  purple  peak  and  golden  rift 

Welcome  the  sun  to  rest : 
As  goes  this  happy  day,  the  season  goes, 
Its  dying  murmurs  chant  the  autumn's  knell,  — 
The  solemn  requiem  of  the  earth's  repose, — 

Farewell,  farewell ! 

Fade  gently,  gently,  in  the  western  sky, 

O  fair  October  day  ! 
Let  rustling  trees  give  back  the  parting  sigh 

Of  winds  that  die  away  ! 


H4  Vale! 

Let  the  broad  sunlight  deepen  into  shade, 
Let  the  kine  homeward  sound  the  tinkling  bell, 
To  all  thy  glories  that  in  twilight  fade, 
Farewell,  farewell  ! 

The  twittering  birds  may  seek  their  hidden  homes 

In  the  dark  cedar-tree, 
And  hived  bees,  in  honey-laden  combs, 

Hum  low  and  lazily  : 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  falls  the  shadowy  night, 
On  field,  and  hill,  and  blue  horizon's  swell, 
The  sun  gives  forth  his  last  expiring  light,  — 

Farewell,  farewell ! 


EXPRESSION. 

A  HACKNEYED  burden,  to  a  hackneyed  air,— 
•*-**  "I  love  thee  only,  —  thou  art  wondrous  fair  !  " 
Alas  !  the  poets  have  worn  the  theme  threadbare  ! 

Can  I  not  find  some  words  less  tame  and  old, 
To  paint  thy  form  and  face  of  perfect  mould, 
Thy  dewy  lips,    thy  hair  of  brown  and  gold  ? 

Can  I  not  sing  in  somewhat  fresher  strain 
The  love  I  lavish  and  receive  again,  — 
The  thrilling  joy,  so  like  to  thrilling  pain  ? 

Can  I  not,  by  some  metaphor  divine, 
Describe  the  life  I  quaff  like  nectared  wine 
In  being  thine,  and  knowing  thou  art  mine  ? 


Ii6  Expression. 

Ah,  no  !  this  halting  verse  can  naught  express  ; 
No  English  words  can  half  the  truth  confess, 
That  have  not  all  been  rhymed  to  weariness ! 

So  let  me  cease  my  scribbling  for  to-day, 
And  maiden,  turn  thy  lovely  face  this  way,  — 
Words  will  not  do,  but  haply  kisses  may  ! 


THE    TRYST. 

speary  grass  and  starry  bloom 
The  tiny  globes  of  dew  are  lying  ; 
The  broad  moon  rises  through  the  gloom 

Of  twilight  haze  ;  and  night-winds  sighing 
In  long-drawn  whispers  say  to  me, 
"  'T  is  eventide  . . .  she  comes  to  thee  ! " 

A  heavy  fragrance  floods  the  air, 

Where  crimson  roses  climb  and  cluster  ; 

Heaven  seems  more  near,  and  earth  more  fair, 
The  broad  moon  shines  with  holier  lustre  ; 

A  white  robe  through  the  dusk  I  see  . . . 

O  Joy  !  O  Love  !  she  comes  to  me  ! 

PALINODE. 

Athwart  the  west,  where  dies  the  day, 
A  stormy  rack  of  cloud  is  drifting, 


Ii8  The  Tryst. 

And  round  the  uplands  bleak  and  gray 

The  wind  its  mournful  voice  is  lifting  : 
With  every  moan  it  says  to  me ... 
"  'T  is  night,  but  she  comes  not  to  thee  !  " 

Sharp  thorns  now  grimly  deck  the  bough 
Where  clustered  once  the  crimson  roses 

With  roses  once  She  wreathed  this  brow 
Where  now  a  thorny  crown  reposes. 

A  bitter  past  alone  I  see  . . . 

Ah  Heaven  !  she  comes  no  more  to  me  ! 


AMONG    THE    HEATHER. 

WINTRY  winds. are  blowing  cold 
On  the  moors  of  purple  heather 
Where,  in  sunnier  days  of  old 
Hand  in  hand  we  idly  strolled, 

Thou  and  I  together. 
But  those  sunny  days  are  past, 

And  no  more  we  walk  together 
Where  the  snow,  on  every  blast, 
Whirls  above  the  heather. 

On  the  dreary  moorland,  now, 

In  the  storm  I  wander  lonely, 
Longing  —  love  alone  knows  how  — 
For  thy  kiss  on  lip  and  brow, 

Longing  for  thee  only  : 
Life  can  bring  me  naught  but  pain, 

Till  among  the  purple  heather 
Hand  in  hand  we  walk  again,  — 

Thou  and  I  together ! 


THE    LEES    OF    LIFE 

T    HAVE  had  my  will, 

Tasted  every  pleasure  ; 

I  have  drank  my  fill 
Of  the  purple  measure  ; 

It  has  lost  its  zest, 

Sorrow  is  my  guest, 
O,  the  lees  are  bitter,  —  bitter,  — 

Give  .me  rest ! 

Love  once  filled  the  bowl 
Running  o'er  with  blisses, 

Made  my  very  soul 
Drunk  with  crimson  kisses  ; 

But  I  drank  it  dry, 

Love  has  passed  me  by, 
O,  the  lees  are  bitter,  —  bitter, — 

Let  me  die  ! 


FARCEUR    DE    POETE! 

O,  fare  you  well,  true  love,  farewell ! 

Did  you  think  you  saw  an  earnest  woe 
In  the  tear  that  just  now  flashed  and  fell  ? 
It  was  not  so  , . . 
I  am  a  mere  farceur,  you  know  ! 

So,  fare  you  well,  true  love !  you  said, 

One  fair  June  night,  when  the  moon  was  low 

That  you  would  love  me,  living  or  dead  . . . 
I  thought  't  was  so  ... 
But  I  am  a  mere  farceur,  you  know  ! 

So,  fare  you  well,  true  love  !  though  you 
Find  peace  and  pleasure,  here  below, 

I  cannot :  perhaps  your  heart  is  true  .  . . 
I  hope  't  is  so  ... 
But  I  am  a  mere  farceur,  you  know  ! 


122  Farceur  de  Poete  ! 

So,  fare  you  well,  true  love  ;  we  part ! 

The  paths  diverge  whereon  we  go : 
'T  is  said  I  carry  a  broken  heart . . . 

Can  that  be  so  ? ... 

I  am  a  mere  farceur,  you  know  ! 


BEER. 

H  ERE 

A  A    With  my  beer 
I  sit, 

While  golden  moments  flit  : 
,     Alas ! 

They  pass 
Unheeded  by : 
And,  as  they  fly, 
I, 
Being  dry, 

Sit,  idly  sipping  here 

My  beer. 

O,  finer  far 

Than  fame,  or  riches,  are 

The  graceful  smoke-wreaths  of  this  free  cigar  ! 


124  Beer. 

i 

Why 

Should  I 

Weep,  wail,  or  sigh  ? 

What  if  luck  has  passed  me  by  ? 
What  if  my  hopes  are  dead,  — 
My  pleasures  fled  ? 

Have  I  not  still 

My  fill 

Of  right  good  cheer,  — 
Cigars  and  beer  ? 

Go,  whining  youth, 

Forsooth  ! 
Go,  weep  and  wail, 
Sigh  and  grow  pale, 

Weave  melancholy  rhymes 

On  the  old  times, 

Whose  joys  like  shadowy  ghosts  appear, 
But  leave  to  me  my  beer ! 

Gold  is  dross,  — 

Love  is  loss,  — 
So,  if  I  gulp  my  sorrows  down, 


Beer.  125 

Or  see  them  drown 
In  foamy  draughts  of  old  nut-brown, 
Then  do  I  wear  the  crown, 
Without  the  cross ! 


YOUTH    AND    AGE. 


"\7"OUTH  hath  many  charms, — 

•*-       Hath  many  joys,  and  much  delight ; 
Even  its  doubts,  and  vague  alarms, 

By  contrast  make  it  bright-: 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  forsooth, 
I  love  Age  as  well  as  Youth ! 


Well,  since  I  love  them  both, 

The  good  of  both  I  will  combine,  — 
In  women,  I  will  look  for  Youth, 

And  look  for  Age,  in  wine  : 
And  then  —  and  then  —  I  '11  bless 
This  twain  that  give  me  happiness  ! 


THE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE  POET. 

THE   BUTTERFLY. 

ON  gorgeous  wings  he  floateth  along, 
Little  for  this  world  careth  he, 
Save  for  the  wild  bee's  somnolent  song 

And  the  sweets  in  flowers  that  be  : 
He  sippeth  to-day  from  the  Lily's  bell ; 
To-morrow,  he  loveth  the  Rose  as  well. 

THE  POET. 
ON  gorgeous  dreams  he  floateth  along, 

Nothing  for  this  world  careth  he, 
Save  for  the  maidens'  laughter  and  song 

And  the  sweets  on  their  lips  that  be : 
To-day,  blonde  Edith  he  loveth  well ; . . . 
To-morrow,  't  is  brown-eyed  Isabel. 


GUI    BONO? 

A  HARMLESS  fellow,  wasting  useless  days, 
Am  I :  I  love  my  comfort  and  my  leisure  : 
Let  those  who  wish  them,  toil  for  gold  and  praise, 
To  me,  this  summer-day  brings  more  of  pleasure. 

So,  here  upon  the  grass  I  lie  at  ease, 

While  solemn  voices  from  the  Past  are  calling, 

Mingled  with  rustling  whispers  in  the  trees, 
And  pleasant  sounds  of  water  idly  falling. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  had  higher  aims 

Than  thus  to  lie  among  the  flowers,  and  listen 

To  lisping  birds,  or  watch  the  sunset's  flames 
On  the  broad  river's  surface  glow  and  glisten. 

There  was  a  time,  perhaps,  when  I  had  thought 
To  make  a  name,  a  home,  a  bright  existence : 


Cui  Bono.  129 

But  time  has  shown  me  that  my  dreams  were  naught 
Save  a  mirage  that  vanished  with  the  distance. 

Well,  it  is  gone  :  I  care  no  longer  now 

For  fame,  for  fortune,  or  for  empty  praises  ; 

Rather  than  wear  a  crown  upon  my  brow, 
I  'd  lie  forever  here  among  the  daisies. 

So  you,  who  wish  for  fame,  good  friend,  pass  by  : 
With  you  I  surely  cannot  think  to  quarrel : 

Give  me  peace,  rest,  this  bank  whereon  I  lie, 
And  spare  me  both  the  labor  and  the  laurel ! 


THE    GOLDEN    FISH. 

T     OVE  is  a  little  golden  fish, 

•*— '       Wondrous  shy ...  ah,  wondrous  shy 

You  may  catch  him,  if  you  wish, 

He  might  make  a  dainty  dish  . . . 

But  I ... 

Ah,  I  Ve  other  fish  to  fry  ! 

For  when  I  try  to  snare  this  prize, 

Earnestly,  and  patiently, 
All  my  skill  the  rogue  defies, 
Lurking  safe  in  Aimee's  eyes  . . . 

So  you  see, 

I  am  caught,  and  love  goes  free  ! 


CA    M'EST    EGAL! 

I  WAS  made  for  the  present  time  ! 
5      The  present  time  was  made  for  me  ! 
I  sing  my  song  or  weave  my  rhyme, 

From  fear  of  future  troubles  free,  — 
For  they  are  naught  to  me  ! 

'T  is  well  with  me  at  the  present  day : 

My  brown-eyed  Alice  sits  by  me  : 
'T  is  true  4:he  moments  pass  away, 

And  time  is  fleeting  silently,  — 

But  that  is  naught  to  me  ! 

I  will  not  mourn  for  the  silent  past, 

Though  pleasures  fine  it  brought  to  me  ; 
The  present  moments  cannot  last, 

But  if  they  leave  no  vacancy, 

The  past  is  naught  to  me ! 


132  Camest  Egal! 

I  fill  a  bowl  with  rose-foamed  wine, 
My  Alice  quaffs  a  health  to  me  ; 

The  present  joyous  day  is  mine, 

The  coming  woe  I  cannot  see, — 
So  that  is  naught  to  me  ! 

And  thus  I  find  in  the  present  time, 
That  life  is  fresh  and  sweet  to  me  ; 

I  still  will  sit  and  weave  my  rhyme  ; 
The  future  soon  will  present  be,  — 
And  bring  new  joys  to  me  ! 


GOLD    AND    PURPLE. 

T  N  this  little,  old-fashioned  garden  of  mine 
Poppies,  and  pinks,  and  pansies  grow ; 
Yellow  of  gold  and  purple  of  wine 

Within  their  clustering  blossoms  glow  ; 
And  a  purple  ribbon  is  fluttering  there, 
From  tangled  ringlets  of  golden  hair. 

I  love  the  pansies,  poppies,  and  pinks, 

Their  glistening  eyes  with  the  dewdrops  wet 

I  love  them,  —  but  in  the  garden,  methinks, 
There  is  something  that  I  love  better  yet  ; 

For  a  purple  ribbon  is  fluttering  there, 

From  tangled  tresses  of  golden  hair. 


PARTING. 

\  yl  7HITE  and  small  was  the  hand  I  pressed 
*  *         Behind  the  rose-covered  cottage  door, 
While  the  moon  rode  low  in  the  azure  west, 
And  the  tremulous  vines,  by  the  wind  caressed, 

Cast  flickering  shadows  over  the  floor,  — 
Swinging,  swaying,  and  sighing  lowly, 
"  Perfect  love  is  the  one  thing  holy  !  " 

Rosy  and  ripe  were  the  lips  I  pressed 

Behind  the  rose-covered  cottage  door, 
While  the  orioles  slept  in  their  downy  nest 
That  swung  in  the  vines,  by  the  wind  caressed, 

Casting  weird  shadows  over  the  floor,  — 
But  the  wind  in  the  tremulous  vines  sang  ever, 
"  Love  must  perish  and  hearts  must  sever  !  " 


THEN    AND    NOW. 

YOU  loved  me  once, ...  ah,  well  I  knew  it  then  ! 
One  night  you  kissed  me,  underneath  the 

roses, 

And  said  that  we  must  never  kiss  again  . . . 
That   was    the   parting . . .  that   strange    moment, 

when 

The  heart  its  weakness  and  its  strength  dis 
closes  . . . 
I  knew  you  loved  me  then  ! 

You  love  me  yet ...  ah,  well  I  know  it  now  ! 

By  these  few  stolen  kisses,  sad  as  tender, 
That  give  my  spirit  strength,  I  know  not  how, 
Falling  like  benisons  on  lip  and  brow,   . 

To  fill  my  soul  with  mingled  gloom  and  splen 
dor  . . . 
I  know  you  love  me  now  ! 


136  Then  and  Now. 

As  then,  and  now,  O  let  it  be  for  aye ! 

Let  those  dear  lips  still  tell  the  sweet  old  story. 
Let  these  kind  kisses  still  drive  grief  away, 
Lighten  my  heavy  cross  from  day  to  day, 

And  make  my  crown  of  thorns  a  crown  of  glory 
For  ever  and  for  aye  ! 


SUMMER    WINDS. 


OUMMER  winds,  whispering  over  the  rye, 
^   Kissing  the  roses  and  hurrying  by, 

Where  have  ye  latest  been,  O  where  ? 

Merrily  tangling  my  maiden's  hair, — 
Wafting  the  tresses  over  her  cheek,  — 
Playing  among  them  at  hide  and  seek, 

Or  trying  with  delicate  scents  of  the  south 

To  rival  the  breath  from  her  own  sweet  mouth  ? 
Tell  me,  summer  winds,  fresh  and  fair, 
Where  have  ye  latest  been,  O  where  ? 

But  the  balmy  breezes  floated  away, 
Daintily  sighing,  —  no  word  said  they. 

II. 

Bear  ye  no  word  from  my  maiden  to  me  ? 
Did  she  not  whisper  her  love  to  ye  ? 


138  Summer   Winds. 

Ah,  well  do  I  know  that  her  fondest  dream 
By  the  sun's  warm  light  or  the  moon's  pale  beam 
Is  ever  of  me,  and  the  love  she  bears 
Oft  breaks  from  her  sweet  lips,  unawares. 
Has  she  not  murmured  some  tender  word  ' 
That  ye,  as  ye  wafted  by,  have  heard  ? 
Tell  me,  summer  winds,  frolic  and  free, 
Bring  ye  no  message  from  her  to  me  ? 

But  the  balmy  breezes  frolicked  away, 
Daintily  sighing,  —  no  word  said  they. 

in. 

O  faithless  winds,  since  thus  ye  are  still, 
And  bring  no  message  my  heart  to  thrill, 
I  will  send  ye  again  to  my  maiden's  side 
To  tell  her  I  '11  meet  her  at  eventide  ; 
Then  fly,  fly  fast  o'er  the  waving  rye,  — 
The  roses  are  lovely,  but  pass  them  by,  - 
Bid  them  to  wait  for  the  kisses  they  crave, 
And  linger  not  on  the  rivulet's  wave  : 
Haste,  O  summer  winds,  sighing  above, 
Tell  her  this  night  shall  she  meet  her  love  ! 


Summer  Winds.  139 

The  balmy  breezes  floated  away, 

And  the  roses  wept  that  they  would  not  stay. 

IV. 

Over  the  hill  the  summer  winds  sped, 
Whirling  and  eddying  overhead, 

Waving  the  moss  on  the  cottage  eaves, 

Rustling  the  feathery  locust-leaves, 
Brushing  the  dew-drops  lingering  yet 
On  the  odorous  blooms  of  the  mignonette, 

Till  they  reached  a  garden  kept  with  care, 

And  found  a  beautiful  maiden  there, 
Alone  in  an  arbor,  where  misty  lines 
Of  sunshine  fell  through  the  tangled  vines. 

Then  the  balmy  breezes  sought  her  ear, 

And  the  words  they  whispered  were  low  but  clear. 

v. 

They  raised  the  tresses  of  gold  and  brown 
That  over  her  snowy  neck  swept  down, 
They  said,  in  a  musical,  breezy  voice, 
"Thy  lover  is  coming,  sweet  child,  rejoice  ! 


140  Summer   Winds. 

When  Hesperus'  light  in  the  west  grows  dim, 
Thy  lover  will  seek  thee  ;  be  ready  for  him  ! " 
The  maiden  heard,  and  a  rosy  glow 
Flushed  up  to  her  cheek  from  her  heart  below, 
And  e'en  as  the  summer  winds  fleeted  by 
They  bore  from  her  bosom  a  gentle  sigh. 

Then  the  balmy  breezes  floated  away, 

And  soon  'mong  the  rose-leaves  nestled  they. 


LAZINESS. 

TV  /T  Y  window-curtain  sweeps 
,*-*      To  and  fro,  in  the  lazy  breeze, 
As  sea-weeds  swing  and  sway  in  the  deeps 
Of  southern  summer  seas. 

The  lazy  sunshine  sleeps 

On  the  rose  and  snow  of  the  apple-trees, 
And  lazy  spring  my  spirit  steeps 

In  a  lotos-dream  of  ease. 


THE    SIMPLE    RHYME. 

BENEATH  the  blue  of  summer  skies, 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer-time, 
With  loitering  steps  and  half-closed  eyes 
I  walk,  and  weave  a  simple  rhyme. 

The  summer  breezes  go  and  come, 
And  blowing,  musical  and  free, 

Bring  sounds  of  bees  that  idly  hum 
About  the  tangled  briony. 

Beneath  the  blue  of  summer  skies, 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer-time, 

With  loitering  steps  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Fair  maids  shall  sing  my  simple  rhyme, 


The  Simple  Rhyme.  143 

And  may  its  echoes  go  and  come 

As  fresh,  as  musical,  as  free, 
As  honey-bees  that  idly  hum 

About  the  tangled  briony  ! 


MEADOW-SWEET. 

* 

/T~^HE  creamy  banks  of  meadow-sweet 
•*•       Along  the  mill-stream's  margin  grow, 
Where  honey-bees  with  pollened  feet 
Hum  softly  to  and  fro. 

'The  sound  is  sweet,  the  fragrance  rare, 

As  summer  breezes  float  along, 
And  round  me  all  the  summer  air 
Is  full  of  scent  and  song. 

O,  what  to  me  are  wealth  and  rank  ? 

O,  what  are  men,  and  their  deceit  ? 
While  I  lie  here,  on  the  mill-stream's  bank, 

Among  the  meadow-sweet ! 


FAREWELL    TO    SUMMER. 

SUMMER  is  fading ;  the  broad  leaves  that  grew 
So  freshly  green,  when  June  was  young,  are 

falling  ; 
And,  all  the  whisper-haunted  forest  through, 

The  restless  birds  in  saddened  tones  are  calling, 
From  rustling  hazel  copse  and  tangled  dell, 
"  Farewell,  sweet  Summer, 
Fragrant,  fruity  Summer, 
Sweet,  farewell ! " 

Upon  the  windy  hills,  in  many  a  field, 

The  honey-bees  hum  slow,  above  the  clover, 
Gleaning  the  latest  sweets  its  blooms  may  yield, 
And,  knowing  that  their  harvest-time  is  over, 
Sing,  half  a  lullaby  and  half  a  knell, 
"  Farewell,  sweet  Summer, 
Honey-laden  Summer, 
Sweet,  farewell  !  " 


146  Farewell  to  Summer. 

The  little  brook  that  babbles  'mid  the  ferns, 

O'er  twisted  roots  and  sandy  shallows  playing, 
Seems  fain  to  linger  in  its  eddied  turns, 

And  with  a  plaintive,  purling  voice,  is  saying, 
(Sadder  and  sweeter  than  my  song  can  tell,) 
"  Farewell,  sweet  Summer, 
Warm  and  dreamy  Summer, 
Sweet,  farewell !  " 

The  fitful  breeze  sweeps  down  the  winding  lane 
With  gold  and  crimson  leaves  before  it  flying  ; 
Its  gusty  laughter  has  no  sound  of  pain, 

But  in  the  lulls  it  sinks  to  gentle  sighing, 
And  mourns  the  Summer's  early  broken  spell,  — 
"Farewell,  sweet  Summer, 
Rosy,  blooming  Summer, 
Sweet,  farewell !  " 

So  bird,  and  bee,  and  brook,   and   breeze  make 

moan, 

With  melancholy  song  their  loss  complaining. 
I  too  must  join  them,  as  I  walk  alone 


Farewell  to  Summer.  147 

Among  the  sights  and  sounds  of  Summer's  wan 
ing  ... 

I  too  have  loved  the  season  passing  well 
So,  farewell,  Summer, 
Fair  but  faded  Summer, 
Sweet,  farewell ! 


s 


SEPTEMBER. 

WEET  is  the  voice  that  calls 

From  babbling  waterfalls 
In  meadows  where  the  downy  seeds  are  flying  ; 
And  soft  the  breezes  blow, 
And  eddying  come  and  go, 
In  faded  gardens  where  the  rose  is  dying. 

Among  the  s'tubbled  corn 

The  blithe  quail  pipes  at  morn, 
The  merry  partridge  drums  in  hidden  places, 

And  glittering  insects  gleam 

Above  the  reedy  stream 
Where  busy  spiders  spin  their  filmy  laces. 

At  eve,  cool  shadows  fall 
Across  the  garden  wall, 
And  on  the  clustered  grapes  to  purple  turning, 


September.^  149 

And  pearly  vapors  lie 
Along  the  eastern  sky, 
Where  the  broad  harvest-moon  is  redly  burning. 

Ah,  soon  on  field  and  hill 

The  winds  shall  whistle  chill, 
And  patriarch  swallows  call  their  flocks  together 

To  fly  from  frost  and  snow, 

And  seek  for  lands  where  blow 
The  fairer  blossoms  of  a  balmier  weather. 

The  pollen-dusted  bees 

Search  for  the  honey-lees 
That  linger  in  the  last  flowers  of  September, 

While  plaintive  mourning  doves 

Coo  sadly  to  their  loves 
Of  the  dead  summer  they  so  well  remember. 

The  cricket  chirps  all  day, 
"  O  fairest  Summer,  stay  !  " 
The  squirrel-eyes  askance  the  chestnuts  browning  ; 


150  September. 

The  wild-fowl  fly  afar 
Above  the  foamy  bar 
And  hasten  southward  ere  the  skies  are  frowning. 

Now  comes  a  fragrant  breeze 

Through  the  dark  cedar-trees 
And  round  about  my  temples  fondly  lingers, 

In  gentle  playfulness, 

Like  to  the  soft  caress 
Bestowed  in  happier  days  by  loving  fingers. 

Yet,  though  a  sense  of  grief 

Comes  with  the  falling  leaf, 
And  memory  makes  the  summer  doubly  pleasant, 

In  all  my  autumn  dreams 

A  future  summer  gleams 
Passing  the  fairest  glories  of  the  present  ! 


THE    HEART'S    REST. 

[GERMAN.] 

r  I  ^HE  wind  is  idly  blowing 

-*-       And  spilling  its  perfume  rare  ; 
The  brook  with  its  ceaseless  flowing, 
Is  singing  a  quaint  old  air. 

But  night  o'er  nature  comes  stealing, 
And  the  wind  will  die  on  the  hill : 

Cold  Winter's  ice,  congealing, 
Will  hush  the  song  of  the  rill. 

My  heart,  like  the  wind,  is  moaning, 
The  day  seems  heavy  and  long,  * 

And  memory's  voice  is  droning 
A  sad,  monotonous  song. 


152  The  Heart's  Rest. 

But,  heart,  thou  shalt  rest  at  even, 
And  memory's  voice  shall  cease, 

For  the  weary  find  rest  in  heaven, 
And  the  troubled  shall  be  at  peace. 


THE    SIREN    OF    THE    ROSE. 


in  an  ancient  garden  I  found  a  maid, 
Who  sat,  entranced  by  perfumes  from  many 

a  blossom  ; 
Between   the    trees    the    sunlight,    down  -gliding, 

played 

Upon  her  shining  tresses  and  snowy  bosom  : 
She  was  so  fair,  I  fancied  she  could  but  be 

Some    fairy   thing,    immortal,    and   more   than 

human  ; 

I  gave  her  purest  lilies  :  she  answered  me, 
„  Die  Sftofe  ift  tic  fcfyimjle  son  alien  S3(umen  !  " 

I  offered  her  bright  pansies,  and  meadow-sweet, 
Great  daffodils,  and  tulips  in  regal  splendor, 

I  laid  green  wreaths  of  laurel  before  her  feet, 
And  while  I  knelt  her  glances  were  dark  and 
tender  : 


154  The  Siren  of  the  Rose. 

Yet  still  she  shook,  though  gently,  her  beauteous 
head  ; 

Who  had  resisted,  surely,  were  one  of  few  men  ! 
And  meekly  still,  in  answer,  she  smiled  and  said, 

„  Die  3tofe  ift  t)ie  fcfyonfte  oott  alien  23lumen  !  " 


I  gazed  about  me,  troubled  :  lo  !  on  my  breast 

A    crimson   rose    shone    fairly,    half   bud,    half 

blossom  ; 
I  laid  it,  in  its  beauty,  among  the  rest.  .  . 

She  placed  the  fragrant  secret  within  her  bosom  ! 
"  Ah  !    with  it,"  cried  I,  stricken,  "  thou  hast  my 
heart  ! 

I  love  thee,  be  thou  fairy,  or  mortal  woman  !  " 
She  whispered  :  "  We  are  wedded,  no  more  to  part  .  .  . 

Die  9lofe  ift  bie  fdjb'nfte  son  alien  33lumen  !  " 


ON    THE    SANDS. 

I    MET  Jessie  Leigh 
On  the  sands ; 
Sweetly  she  smiled  on  me, 
While  breezes  from  the  sea 

Brought  dreamy  odors  as  from  distant  lands, 
And  the  warm  sunshine  fell 
O'er  weed,  and  pebble,  and  shell, 
Upon  the  sands. 

I  sat  with  Jessie  Leigh 

On  the  sands  ; 
Very  fair  was  she, 
And  very  kind  to  me  ; 

I  kissed  her  forehead,  and  her  dainty  hands, 
While  the  white  moon  above 
Witnessed  our  vows  of  love, 

Upon  the  sands. 


156  On  the  Sands. 

I  saw  Jessie  Leigh 

On  the  sands ; 
Cold  and  white  lay  she, 
Drowned  in  the  cruel  sea, 

Her  fair  hair  floating  in  dishevelled  strands. 
Would  God  I  too  had  died, 
And  slept  there  by  her  side, 

Upon  the  sands  ! 


FOUL    WEATHER. 

r  1  ^HE  rain,  upon  the  sodden  grass, 

-*-       Is  beating,  beating  wearily  ; 
Gray  clouds  of  mist,  like  phantoms,  pass, 
And  the  salt,  wet  wind  wails  drearily, 
As  it  brings  to  me,  from  the  shore  afar, 
The  dirge  of  the  surf  on  the  outer  bar. 

My  heart,  within  my  fevered  breast, 

Is  beating,  beating  wearily, 
And  memory,  with  a  sad  unrest, 

Wails  through  its  chambers  drearily, 
Till  I  almost  wish  that  the  surf  afar 
Were  singing  my  dirge  on  the  outer  bar. 


APART. 


A  WAVE,  mid-ocean,  sorrowed  for  the  shore, 
•*•  ^-     "  O,  may  I  never  see  the  smiling  land  ? 
Must  I,  then,  break,  and  be  a  wave  no  more, 
Before  I  kiss  the  sand  ?  " 


A  caged  bird  sang  from  early  dawn  till  late, 
"  Must  I  in  gilded  loneliness  still  pine, 

Nor  know  the  joy  of  nesting  with  my  mate, 
Her  rosy  beak  to  mine  ? " 

A  tropic  blossom  drooped  its  bell  above 

The  northern  loam  :  "  O,  may  I  never  strew 

My  thirsty  pollen  in  the  blooms  I  love, 
And  drink  their  honeyed  dew  ? " 

So  I,  O  Love !  am  yearning  for  thy  smile  ; 
So,  mateless,  I  a  sorrowing  song  upraise  ; 


Apart.  159 

So  for  thy  bloom  I  thirst  and  sigh,  the  while 
I  count  the  weary  days  ! 

But  though  the  wave  may  break  its  foamy  crest, 
The  bird  be  captive  till  its  days  are  done, 

The  lonely  blossom  wither  all  unblest, 
Our  lives  shall  yet  be  one  ! 


AT    DUSK. 

A  SHADOWY  dance  of  ghostly  images 
By  the  red  firelight  on  the  wall  is  flung, 
And  ivory  fingers  on  the  ivory  keys 

Wake  the  old  waltz  we   loved  when  love  was 
young. 

On  music  is  poetic  fancy  fed, 

And  these  soft  strains  bring  many  a  thought  to 

me, 
Sad  with  the  knell  of  hopes  and  pleasures  dead, 

Sweet  with  the  promise  of  new  joys  to  be. 

In  the  warm  firelight's  glow  thy  shining  hair 
Seems  half  transmuted  into  precious  gold, 

And,  faintly  falling  on  the  dusky  air, 

The  olden  cadence  wakes  the  dream  of  old. 


At  Dusk.  161 

O  Love  !  the  cup  was  bitter,  but  its  lees 

Are  sweet  as  honeyed  dew  in  Hybla's  flowers, 

And  all  our  days  are  fraught  with  prophecies 
Of  sweeter  draughts  to  come  in  future  hours. 


SERENADE. 

T   HEAR  the  dry-voiced  insects  call, 
•*•    And  "  Come,"  they  say,  "  the  night  grows  brief! " 
I  hear  the  dew-drops  pattering  fall 
From  leaf  to  leaf,  —  from  leaf  to  leaf. 

Your  night-lamp  glimmers  fitfully  ; 

I  watch  below,  you  sleep  above  ; 
Yet  on  your  blind  I  seem  to  see 

Your  shadow,  love,  —  your  shadow,  love  ! 

The  roses  in  the  night-wind  sway, 
Their  petals  glistening  with  the  dew  ; 

As  they  are  longing  for  the  day, 
I  long  for  you,  —  I  long  for  you 

But  you  are  in  the  land  of  dreams  ; 

Your  eyes  are  closed,  your  gentle  breath 


Serenade.  163 

So  faintly  comes,  your  slumber  seems 
Almost  like  death,  —  almost  like  death  ! 

Sleep  on  ;  but  may  my  music  twine 
Your  sleep  with  strands  of  melody, 

And  lead  you,  gentle  love  of  mine, 
To  dream  of  me,  —  to  dream  of  me  ! 


VIA    CRUCIS. 

\  T  7  HO  treads  the  path  of  love  and  loss, 

With  humble  steps  and  head  bowed  down, 
May  bear  on  earth  the  heaviest  cross, 

But  wears  in  heaven  the  brightest  crown. 

Then  let  us  bless  the  weary  way, 

The  cross,  the  thorn,  the  cruel  rod, 
That  lift  us  from  our  gods  of  clay 

To  know  the  true,  the  living  God ! 


CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

SUCH  a  wee,  white  stocking 

As  Clare  by  the  fireside  hung, 
When  the  Christmas-eve  fire  was  waning 

And  the  Christmas-eve  hymn  was  sung. 
O,  such  a  wee,  wee  stocking, 

So  dainty,  so  snowily  white, 
That  she  hung  on  a  branch  of  green  holly, 
Ere  bidding  us  all  "  Good-night !  " 

What  shall  I  put  in  her  stocking  ? 

Some  pleasant  book  ?  or  a  rhyme  ? 
Shall  I  write  her  a  gentle  lyric 

Of  love  and  the  holiday  time  ? 
No  :  books  are  better  for  scholars  ; 

At  best  they  are  silent  friends  ; 
My  rhymes,  —  alas  !  they  are  many, 

But  there  their  virtue  ends. 


1 66  Christmas  Eve. 

Then  what  shall  I  put  in  the  stocking 
That  the  hazel-eyed  maiden  hung 

On  a  twig  of  red-berried  holly 

When  the  Christmas-eve  hymn  was  sung  ? 

Let  me  put  my  heart  in  the  stocking 

—  A  fitting  gift  it  would  be  !  — 

But  my  heart  is  large,  —  it  is  boundless,  — 
And  the  stocking  is  dainty  and  wee. 

Well,  here  is  the  ring  on  my  finger, 

I  've  worn  it  many  a  year  ; 
'T  was  the  gift  of  an  ancient  comrade 

Whose  memory  I  hold  dear. 
Yet  nothing  on  earth  I  treasure 

So  much  that  she  might  not  say,  — 
"  O,  give  me  this  if  you  love  me,"  — 

And  bear  it  —  a  trophy  —  away  ! 

So  I  drop  my  ring  in  the  stocking 

—  She  knows  it  is  mine  full  well. 
(Good  comrade,  I  prithee,  forgive  me  ! 

None  other  my  love  could  tell.) 


Christmas  Eve.  167 

I  drop  my  ring  in  the  stocking 
So  dainty,  so  snowy,  so  small,  — 

O  Clare,  as  I  cherish  and  love  thee, 
May  God  love  and  cherish  us  all !. 

Ah  me  !  my  heart  is  boundless, 

The  stocking  is  dainty  and  wee  ; 
But  love  has  a  wonderful  magic 

And  wonderful  power  on  me  : 
When  I  dropped  my  ring  in  the  stocking, 

Breathing  that  earnest  prayer, 
My  heart  went  in  with  the  jewel, 

A  present  for  maiden  Clare. 


NEW-YEAR'S    EVE. 

\  T  7ITH  a  bottle  and  a  friend 

*  *        — Friend  is  Tom  and  bottle  Sherry 
I  shall  now  begin  and  end 
This  brief  space  where  two  years  blend, 
Wondrous  wise  and  merry. 

Never  yet  was  there  a  woe 

That  had  not  a  pleasure  pressing 
Close  upon  its  heels  ;  and  so 
Through  the  Old  and  New  we  go, 
Each  at  some  time  blessing. 

Though  the  Old  Year  brought  to  me 
Little  joy  and  much  of  sorrow, 

In  the  New  I  hope  to  be 

Happier  :  my  joys,  you  see, 
Always  come  —  to-morrow. 


New-Year's  Eve.  169 

So,  as  New-Year's  Eve  doth  end, 

Tom,  and  I,  and  golden  Sherry 
—  Finest  wine  and  oldest  friend  — 
Kill  the  space  where  two  years  blend, 

Making  wondrous  merry. 


J  UBI  LATE. 

GRAY  distance  hid  each  shining  sail, 
By  ruthless  breezes  borne  from  me  ; 
And,  lessening,  fading,  faint  and  pale, 
My  ships  went  forth  to  sea. 

Where  misty  breakers  rose  and  fell 
I  stood  and  sorrowed  hopelessly  ; 

For  every  wave  had  tales  to  tell 
Of  wrecks  far  out  at  sea. 

To-day,  a  song  is  on  my  lips  : 
Earth  seems  a  paradise  to  me  : 

For  God  is  good,  and,  lo,  my  ships 
Are  coming  home  from  sea ! 


THE    MATRON    YEAR. 

i. 

THE   leaves  that   made  our  forest   pathways 
shady 

Begin  to  rustle  down  upon  the  breeze ; 
The  year  is  fading,  like  a  stately  lady 

Who  lays  aside  her  youthful  vanities  : 
Yet,  while  the  memory  of  her  beauty  lingers, 

She  cannot  wear  the  livery  of  the  old, 
So  Autumn  comes,  to  paint  with  frosty  fingers 
Some  leaves  with  hues  of  crimson  and  of  gold. 

II. 

The  Matron's  voice  filled  all  the  hills  and  valleys 
With  full-toned  music,  when  the   leaves   were 
young  ; 

While  now,  in  forest  dells  and  garden-alleys, 
A  chirping,  reedy  song  at  eve  is  sung  ; 


172  The  Matron    Year. 

Yet  sometimes,  too,  when  sunlight  gilds  the  morn 
ing, 

A  carol  bursts  from  some  half-naked  tree, 
As  if,  her  slow  but  sure  decadence  scorning, 

She  woke  again  the  olden  melody. 

in. 
With  odorous  May-buds,  sweet  as  youthful  pleasures, 

She  made  her  beauty  bright  and  debonair  : 
But  now,  the  sad  earth  yields  no  floral  treasures, 

And  twines  no  roses  for  the  Matron's  hair  : 
Still  can  she  not  all  lovely  things  surrender ; 

Right  regal  is  her  drapery  even  now,  — 
Gold,  purple,  green,  inwrought  with  every  splendor, 

And  clustering  grapes  in  garlands  on  her  brow  ! 

IV. 

In  June,  she  brought  us  tufts  of  fragrant  clover 
Rife  with  the  wild  bee's  cheery  monotone, 

And,  when  the  earliest  bloom  was  past  and  over, 
Offered  us  sweeter  scents  from  fields  new-mown  : 


The  Matron    Year.  173 

Now,  upland  orchards  yield,  with  pattering 
laughter, 

Their  red-cheeked  bounty  to  the  groaning  wain, 
And  heavy-laden  racks  go  creeping  after, 

Piled  high  with  sheaves  of  golden-bearded  grain. 

v. 
Erelong,  when  all  to  love  and  life  are  clinging, 

And  festal  holly  shines  on  every  wall, 
Her  knell  shall  be  the  New- Year  bells,  outringing  ; 

The  drifted  snow,  her  stainless  burial-pall  : 
She  fades  and  fails,  but  proudly  and  sedately, 

This  Matron  Year,  who  has  such  largess  given, 
Her  brow  still  tranquil,  and  her  presence  stately, 

As  one  who,  losing  earth,  holds  fast  to  heaven  ! 


REQUIESCAM. 

GIVE  me,  when  I  die, 
A  grave  among  the  corn  and  clover. 
Let  me  peaceful  lie 
In  some  field,  with  forests  nigh, 
Where  the  blossoms  bending  over 

Mingle  sigh  for  sigh 
With  ever  rustling  leaves 
Whispering  to  the  rustling  sheaves. 

Let  the  tall  grass  wave 

High  above  my  grave, 
And  strew,  each  fall,  their  treasures  o'er  me  ; 

Leaves  of  gold,  and  brown, 

Softly  floating  down, 
Or  driven  wildly  onward,  when  't  is  stor-my. 

O  give  me  not  a  tomb 
White,  and  marble-cold,  and  dreary, 


Requ  iescam.  175 

In  the  churchyard's  gloom  ! 
Rather,  when  I  'm  weary, 
Let  me  lie  at  rest 

'Neath  the  clover,  growing  fair, 

In  the  warm,  sunshiny  air, 
With  its  thready  tendrils  twining  round  my 
breast. 

So,  tranquil  be  my  sleep, 
When  the  hazy,  slanting  beams 

Rest  on  forest,  vale,  and  steep, 
Through  long,  summer  afternoons 

Be  my  slumber  still  and  deep. 
Let  the  new  and  waning  moons 
Come,  and  go,  and  bring  me  dreams. 


IN    THE    DARK. 


[While  this  book  was  passing  through  the  press,  a  fortunate  ac 
cident  placed  in  my  possession  the  original  manuscript  of  this,  the 
last  poem  that  Arnold  wrote.  It  was  written  within  a  few  days 
of  his  death,  when  the  shadow  of  the  night  that  knows  no  earthly 
dawn  was  already  closing  around  him.  — W.  W.] 


A   LL  moveless  stand  the  ancient  cedar-trees 
•**•       Along  the   drifted   sand-hills  where   they 

grow  ;     ^ 
And   from    the    dark    west    comes    a   wandering 

breeze, 
And  waves  them  to  and  fro. 

A  murky  darkness  lies  along  the  sand, 

Where   bright   the    sunbeams   of  the    morning 
shone  ; 

And  the  eye  vainly  seeks,  by  sea  and  land, 
Some  light  to  rest  upon. 


In  the  Dark.  177 

No  large,  pale  star  its  glimmering  vigil  keeps  ; 

An  inky  sea  reflects  an  inky  sky  ; 
And  the  dark  river,  like  a  serpent,  creeps 

To  where  its  black  piers  lie. 

Strange,  salty  odors  through  the  darkness  steal, 
And  through  the  dark  the  ocean-thunders  roll. 

Thick  darkness  gathers,  stifling,  till  I  feel 
Its  weight  upon  my  soul ! 

I  stretch  my  hands  out  in  the  empty  air  ; 

I  strain  my  eyes  into  the  heavy  night ; 
Blackness  of  darkness ! . . .  Father,  hear  my  prayer . . . 

Grant  me  to  see  the  light  ! 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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